


The Things You Keep

by glasslogic



Series: Fortress [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Demon!Dean, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-08
Updated: 2014-08-08
Packaged: 2018-02-12 07:29:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 27,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2100846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glasslogic/pseuds/glasslogic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been several months since the events of Static and Sam's life has improved considerably. Dean's sane again, the demonic atrocities have stopped, and things are getting back to to normal. But "normal" for the Winchesters is still screwed up, and Sam's just waiting for the other shoe to drop. When it does, Dean might be missing, but at least Sam still has his corpse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Things You Keep

 

“This isn’t going to work, Sam,” Bobby said flatly, as they both stared into the Impala’s open trunk. Fallen autumn leaves skittered across the gravel driveway of the junkyard. It was unseasonably warm for October in South Dakota, but the landscape wasn’t fooled by temperatures in the seventies. Warm greens and foliage were well on their way to winter’s brown and skeletal branches.  
  
“It’s just for a few days.”  
  
Bobby scowled. “In a  _few days_  we’ll be able to smell this clear to the house! It’s already going to take a miracle to get the stench out of this trunk.”  
  
“What was I supposed to do, Bobby? Stay in the motel?” Sam spread his hands helplessly, trying to keep his own irritation in check. The week had started off badly and gone steadily downhill. “I just need a place to stash it until he gets back.”  
  
Bobby gave the tarp-shrouded figure in the trunk another annoyed glance. “Get a shovel.”  
  
“I don’t want to bury him.”  
  
“Well, what exactly did you have in mind then? Because we’re not going to leave him in the trunk, or lying around my yard, or anywhere else that might lead to a  _murder investigation_ , Sam! There are law-enforcement type people who like to swing by here, never mind that I do actually have neighbors. They aren’t that close, but this is going to get whiffy in a hurry.”  
  
“I don’t want to bury him, Bobby. I’ve already done that, and I think once in a lifetime is enough!”  
  
“Then do you mind going away for a couple of hours while I do it?” Bobby growled. “Don’t think of it as _burial_ , think of it as… convenient underground storage. Lord knows being six feet under hasn’t slowed him down before. Where did you say he went again?”  
  
Sam’s shoulders slumped. “He didn’t really tell me. He said there was something he wanted to check out, a body was just going to get in his way, and he’d be back in a few minutes. I was in the shower; it wasn’t like I could tackle him or something. He’s uh, a--”  
  
“The next words out of your mouth had better not be ‘free spirit’ if you want to stay on my good side.”  
  
Sam wisely kept quiet. Bobby grumbled something unflattering under his breath.  
  
“How many days ago was this again? Because what I can smell from here says it wasn’t this morning.”  
  
“Three days.”  
  
“I can’t tell you how much I’ve missed these little visits, Sam.”  
  
“I just don’t want him buried,” Sam repeated, a certain stubborn set of his jaw telling Bobby that he was prepared to be as unreasonable as possible. It was a dependable Winchester trait. The whole world could be going to Hell and John’s kids would still be stubborn as mules and proof against any rational logic. It tended to work for them, but there was a  _line_. “There’s got to be something else we can do.”  
  
“With about two hundred pounds of dead body?” Bobby demanded. “We don’t have a lot of rules here at  _le chateau_  Singer, Sam, but I’m going to have to enforce the 'no corpses above ground' one. Unless  _you_  feel like trying to explain this from the wrong side of a county jail cell?”  
  
Sam stared into the trunk again, obviously thinking hard. Bobby hoped Sam was thinking about how much he loved digging holes, but didn’t hold out much hope. He was rewarded for his skepticism when Sam spoke up again.  
  
“Do you still have that big freezer out in the barn?”  
  
“Do I still have--” Bobby echoed incredulously. He had a freezer out there all right, and Sam damn well knew it. A huge monstrosity of an appliance, handy for wild game, leftovers, ice, and various other sundries both useful and tasty.  
  
It was not, in any way, a morgue for freeloading house guests.  
  
Bobby glanced between the contents of the trunk and Sam’s hopeful face, and then sighed heavily. “Yeah, okay.”

  
~~~~~

 

After a depressingly long time spent unpacking the freezer, they were able to unceremoniously stuff the body inside, tarp and all. Sam had shown absolutely no inclination towards unwrapping it, and Bobby certainly wasn’t interested. He’d seen bodies before, with sad regularity, and he didn’t feel the need to see Dean that way. Again. Especially if he might be looking at him across the kitchen table sometime soon.  
  
He hoped it  _would_  be sometime soon; he’d seen what being separated for too long had done to Sam before, and he didn’t need to see that again either.  
  
Once the freezer was repacked with contents that Bobby was decidedly less enthusiastic about, he’d padlocked it and made Sam drop the frozen goods off in town at the food bank, armed with a story about the unreliability of old appliances and wiring.  
  
“I can’t believe he would just up and leave you. You really have no idea where he went?” Bobby asked later, while he checked on a salvaged lasagna he’d stuffed in the oven. Sam had been put in charge of salad and was chopping lettuce at the counter.  
  
“Not really, but it seems like there’s been more demonic activity lately, nothing like last year-- small scale stuff, you know?”  
  
“Better than you, probably. I get the calls.”  
  
Sam shrugged. “It irritates Dean when we trip over them, plus they’d probably like to skin me as a general rule. We’re not making much headway on our other problem, so he was talking about looking into it and then--”  
  
“He just left,” Bobby finished.  
  
“He said it would be a few minutes.”  
  
“Three days ago.”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“What are you going to do if he doesn’t come back?” Bobby finally asked a bit awkwardly.  
  
“Die badly?”  
  
“Sam--”  
  
“You asked, Bobby.”  
  
“Don’t you have some kind of, I don’t know,  _tether_  or something that you can use to make him come back?”  
  
“We’ve got a link, but it doesn’t work like that. It… kind of barely works at all anymore.”  
  
“Since when?” Bobby demanded. “It seemed to work pretty damn fine the last time I saw you boys. What was that, four months ago?”  
  
“Five months. I’ve been trying to make things… better.”  
  
“Sounds like a bang-up job so far.”  
  
Sam slammed the knife down on the counter. “You don’t know what this is like, Bobby! I just want a little more space in my own head. There’s other things involved too, remember? This is supposed to be something that  _I_  did now, and if  _I_  did it, then I should be able to make it work however I want. I shouldn’t be stuck with the aftermath of Lilith’s twisted idea of couple’s therapy!”  
  
“If it gets you killed, that’s not actually  _better_ , Sam.”  
  
Sam grabbed a bunch of carrots and sat at the table to peel them. “And it’s not  _actually_  broken; I can still feel him on the other end. He doesn’t  _feel_  like he’s distressed or anything. But it’s not like it used to be. I’m not sure if he’s really fine, or if it’s just so faint that--”  
  
“Did you run this by Missouri before you started messing around?” Bobby demanded.  
  
“I don’t need anyone’s  _permission_  to do whatever the hell I want to do with things going on in my head, Bobby!”  
  
“Which is why your brother is stuffed in my freezer out back while you hang around waiting to die! That’s some fantastic planning on your all’s part. Thanks for including me in this.”  
  
“Bobby--”  
  
“Can you fix it? Or just break it outright?”  
  
“Maybe. If I had my hands on him.”  
  
“And I guess his uninhabited corpse doesn’t count?”  
  
Sam didn’t bother replying.  
  
“Well, isn’t this just perfect.”  
  
“What do you want from me, Bobby?”  
  
“Not to do stupid things,” Bobby growled. He pulled the lasagna out and almost dropped it as his finger caught the hot pan through a hole in the oven mitt. “I think you’re big enough now that it shouldn’t be that difficult of a request. I’m old, and I get a lot older every time you come around! Don’t you think there are enough problems in your life without creating all new ones?”  
  
“This isn’t a  _new_  problem; this--”  
  
“Wouldn’t be a problem at all if you had left well enough alone!”  
  
“You remember what the curse  _does_ , right?” Sam asked.  
  
Bobby glared and slammed a cabinet door after getting the plates out. “Do you have any way of figuring out where he might be?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Can any of the other voices in your head help you find him?”  
  
Sam seemed to consider that for a moment. “Maybe,” he finally said. “But I don’t really have any way to reach them. They’re strictly on a ‘don’t call us, we’ll call you’ sort of basis.”  
  
“Even for an emergency?”  
  
“I don’t think they really  _do_  emergencies. I can try and do the equivalent of waving my hands around and jumping-- but it’s probably like screaming into the wind.”  
  
Bobby tossed a dish towel on the table and set the pan on it, then grabbed the bowl of lettuce and some plates. “Grab the salad dressing and some beers out of the fridge. What’s the game plan then?”  
  
Sam shrugged and pulled the stuff from the fridge, then slid one of the beers across the table. “I guess I wait.”  
  
Bobby eyed him. “You’re taking this all pretty well.”  
  
“It’s not the first time I’ve been through this, Bobby. Not even the first time I’ve been through this  _here_ ,” Sam said with a certain amount of resignation.  
  
“Trust me, I remember.”  
  
Sam smiled with a definite edge. “Besides, I need to conserve my strength. I’m saving the yelling and punching for Dean.”  
  
Bobby nodded in approval. “Finally, a good plan.”

  
~~~~~

 

A few nights later, Bobby woke up from a sound sleep in the dark hours of the morning and pulled on his sneakers instead of rolling back over. He had a firm policy that waking up meant a perimeter check. It was ritual paranoia, but he was comfortable with a certain amount of that in his life. Paranoid hunters lived longer.  
  
He stepped into the dim shadows of his living room and almost jumped out of his skin when a voice spoke up behind him.  
  
“Bobby.”  
  
Bobby spun before the last syllable had cleared the air and breathed a sigh of relief.  
  
“You almost gave me a damn heart attack,” he snapped.  
  
Sam leaned back in the kitchen chair and didn’t reply. The only light in the room was what dim moonlight seeped through curtains that hadn’t been washed in years, but it was enough for Bobby to make out the slump of Sam’s shoulders. It had been most of a week since he’d shown up at the salvage yard, and there was still no hint of his brother.  
  
“Couldn’t sleep?” Bobby tried to gentle his tone. If he was getting nervous about Dean’s continued absence, he couldn’t imagine how Sam was feeling.  
  
“Not really.”  
  
“You want some breakfast?”  
  
“It’s--” Sam twisted to look at the clock on the stove, “-- three in the morning, Bobby.”  
  
“Never too early for waffles.”  
  
“I think it might be this time,” Sam said wryly. “What are you doing up anyways?”  
  
Bobby shrugged and grabbed one of the other chairs. “Restless. Seemed like a good time to check the locks.”  
  
Sam nodded in understanding, and an easy silence filled the kitchen again.  
  
“What are we doing in here?” Bobby finally asked as the minutes stretched from five to ten and he started seriously thinking about his warm bed again.  
  
Sam didn’t move from his position facing the kitchen door.  
  
“Waiting.”

  
~~~~~

 

Four more days passed and Sam was starting to look a little on the drawn side. Bobby didn’t know if he was still sitting up in the kitchen at night, but he was definitely sleeping late in the mornings. He helped out around the house in the afternoon, but by dinner time looked exhausted and rebuffed any question with a shrug or an irritated look. There wasn’t a whole lot to talk about anyways; they’d established some time ago that there wasn’t much help anyone could offer. Almost anyone.  
  
“Have you tried asking Missouri for help?” Bobby asked as he emptied the dish drainer in the sink and Sam used a spatula to keep the stir-fry from burning. The evening air wafted through the screen door, carrying the scent of pine and early fall.  
  
“I’m not talking to keep myself company,” Bobby said gruffly, when no answer was forthcoming.  
  
“I called.”  
  
“And she said?”  
  
“Pretty much what you said. It started with ‘idiot’ and went downhill from there.”  
  
“So, not a lot of help.”  
  
“She’s somewhere in the Outer Hebrides.” Bobby gave him a skeptical look. “Seriously,” Sam insisted. “She has a cousin who has a problem… I don’t know. Basically there’s not much she could do even if she was here that I can’t do myself. Working with my inner  _whateverness_. She did threaten to beat me senseless with her grandmother’s wooden spoon if I died.”  
  
“This is why most sane people don’t go in for all the psychic nonsense.”  
  
“Right, because this was something I  _chose_ ,” Sam snapped.  
  
“I didn’t say you  _chose_  it, I’m just saying that--” Bobby bit off his last word as they both heard a sound from outside and looked towards the kitchen door. After a moment, the sound came again, the quiet rattle of a loose rock being kicked in the driveway. There had been no hint of a car engine and the house was a quarter mile walk from the highway. Sam raised an eyebrow in Bobby’s direction and pulled one of the long knives from the butcher’s block.  
  
“Expecting company?” he mouthed silently.  
  
Bobby shook his head grimly and grabbed a shotgun from his well-stocked pantry.  
  
The wooden steps outside echoed with footsteps. Sam was just considering the merits of a salt shaker in his free hand when the screen door was wrenched open and a woman stomped in. She was pale and lanky, and absolutely no one Sam knew.  
  
“What the hell have you people done with my body?!” she demanded, radiating anger with every line of her body.  
  
Bobby let the shotgun lower an inch and shot Sam a quizzical look. “Ah, Sam…?”  
  
The woman snorted and raked some of her dark, oily-looking hair off her face. She hitched what looked like a sheet up higher over her chest and glared at both of them. “My body! Six-something, sandy hair, green eyes,  _male_. Last seen in a motel room down off route 66? Ringing any bells?  _Sam_?”  
  
“Sam?” Bobby asked with a little more urgency.  
  
“I don’t  _feel_  anything, Bobby!”  
  
“That’s because you went and messed with things you  _clearly_  shouldn’t be messing with. You’re going to give me my body back, then you’re going to fix this, and then you’re going to keep your freaking little metaphysical fingers  _off_  the curse. Are you with me on this, Sam? Because don’t think I’ve even  _begun_  to express how very  _pissed_  I am right now. Do you have any idea what it’s like to wear a body like this and hike along the highway in a sheet? The only reason I didn’t stop to kill half a dozen people on the way is because it would have taken even  _longer_  to get here and kill  _you_!”  
  
“Dean?” Sam asked hesitantly.  
  
The woman rolled her eyes and yanked the sheet up, revealing the one pale leg all the way up to her waist; a familiar tattoo twisted neatly over the hipbone. Sam glanced at Bobby, who leveled the shotgun out again and nodded. The woman held still while Sam set the knife down, well out of her reach, and laid a hand tentatively over the intricate design. The familiar tingle bit into his palm and his shoulders sagged with relief.  
  
“ _Dean_.”  
  
“Because that’s real proof of identity, Sam,” she said derisively. “I  _could_  be Dean, or I  _could_  be some other demon who flayed it off him and decided to take you for a ride. It’s not  _entirely_  outside the realm of possibility, seeing as that’s pretty much how I got it in the first place!”  
  
“Uh…”  
  
She dropped the sheet down over her legs again. “ _Where is my body?!_ ”  
  
“Well, now I don’t know if you  _are_  Dean.” Sam crossed his arms over his chest and returned her glare.  
  
“I’m convinced.” Bobby stood the shotgun back in the pantry and closed the door. “I’d recognize this adolescent wrangling anywhere. Aren’t you two going to ever grow up?”  
  
“I stopped growing when I died,” Dean snapped.  
  
“Did you stop thinking too?” Bobby growled. “Where the hell have you been?”  
  
“Around.”  
  
Sam had something more pressing to address. “Who is this… person?”  
  
“Who--? Oh. Right. She’s a local vegetable.” Dean held out one wrist and wiggled it so they could see the hospital bracelet. “When I couldn’t find my body, I tried for you, but you’ve got the anti-possession ward, and Bobby has a ward--” Bobby’s eyes narrowed but he didn’t interrupt. “--so I went shopping in the produce section. I knew you would throw some prima donna fit if I just grabbed what was convenient, so it took me awhile to locate something suitable.”  
  
“People are going to miss her.”  
  
“Yes, Sam,” Dean said with exaggerated patience. “People  _will_  miss her, but she’s not home to care if I spin the wheels and kick the tires, so they can keep missing her. You’re going to keep your mouth shut about it, and we’re all going to pretend this is fun. Now back to the important question--”  
  
“It’s in the barn,” Bobby said.  
  
“You… buried me in the barn?”  
  
“Well, maybe not  _buried_  exactly,” Sam hedged. He glanced at Bobby for support, but Bobby just raised an eyebrow and didn’t comment.  
  
Dean’s eyes narrowed ominously. “What  _exactly_  did you do?”

  
~~~~~

 

The trip outside was delayed for just as long as it took Dean to kick off some badly shredded hospital slippers and stuff his feet into some oversized boots. He refused to wait as long as it would take to change into something that resembled real clothes and wore his sheet back out into the yard for the trip to the barn.  
  
Bobby swore as he fiddled with the padlock on the chest. “This damn thing sticks more every time.”  
  
Dean frowned. “This is a freezer, Bobby.”  
  
“I know it’s a freezer. I had to clean the damn thing out to stuff you in it.”  
  
“ _Why_  did you stuff me in a freezer? You guys too good for some old fashioned shoveling? Do you have _any idea_  how long it’s going to take to thaw me out and fix the damage? A little decay is no big deal, but this… What a mess,” he finished with a groan.  
  
“Ask your brother,” Bobby grunted as he gave the padlock a solid whack.  
  
“Sam? Something you want to add to this conversation?” Dean demanded.  
  
“I don’t know, Dean,” Sam retorted. “You said you were going away for a  _few minutes_. By the time I realized that meant a few days, you were starting to get a little ripe and my options were limited. And I just… didn’t want to bury you.”  
  
“I bet  _Bobby_  would have buried me.”  
  
“I offered. Has anyone seen the bolt cutters?” Bobby asked, picking through tools on a cluttered work bench next to the freezer.  
  
“Next time, don’t ask him, just do it,” Dean said firmly. “Make a note: Sam no longer gets any say over what happens to my corpse.”  
  
Sam rolled his eyes. “How about you make special plans not to leave it with me anymore? Or maybe just not leave it at all?”  
  
“I wouldn’t have done it this time if I’d realized you were going to turn me into a popsicle!”  
  
Sam’s lip twitched. “Do you know how high your voice gets now?”  
  
Dean kicked him in the shin.  
  
“Hey!”  
  
“I would have kicked you higher, but the sheet gets in the way. Bobby, why the hell are you keeping bolt cutters within five feet of a lock?”  
  
“If it’s taken me this long to find them, how long do you think it would take a thief?”  
  
“Just let me do it.” Dean stepped forward impatiently and grabbed the lock, then swore and stumbled back, shaking his hand as if he’d lost feeling.  
  
“Dean--”  
  
“It’s blessed! That stupid, fucking, freezer is  _blessed_!” He turned and grabbed a handful of Sam’s shirt, yanking him down until he was eye level. “You stuffed my body in a  _sanctified freezer_?! I knew there had to be a reason I couldn’t find it. What the hell were you  _thinking_?!”  
  
Sam tried to wrench free as the death grip on his collar cut off his air but Dean was impervious to his efforts.  
  
Bobby, who looked highly disinclined to intervene, eyed the freezer thoughtfully. “Blessed? That’s good to know. Could be useful one day.”  
  
Dean released Sam in disgust, who fell to the dirt floor gasping and rubbing his neck. “That isn’t good to know, Bobby. This is a freaking disaster! It’s going to take  _weeks_  to fix this!  _Weeks_  I’m going to have to teeter around on these little tent pegs for feet, and it wasn’t exactly a subtle escape. Do you know how far it is from here to County Regional? A hundred people probably saw me stalking down the highway and have called the cops by now. It might take them awhile to show up here, but they  _will_  show up, and then what?” He glanced at the bracelet on his wrist. “We tell them that Deborah May Mason just woke up one evening and decided to move in with the weird junkyard hobo down the road? I’m sure they won’t try to cart me off or anything!”  
  
He glared down at Sam who was still sprawled on the ground. “Next time, you put me in the fucking ground, Sam, or I’m going to put  _you_  there!”  
  
Neither Sam nor Bobby spoke as Dean turned and stormed out of the barn. A few seconds later the screen door on the kitchen slammed. Sam coughed.  
  
“Well, speaking as the weird junkyard hobo in question, watching the men in the white suits try to haul him off might be worth the price of admission,” Bobby said dryly. He held out a hand to help Sam to his feet. “You okay?”  
  
“Yeah.” Sam coughed again. “He’s pissed.”  
  
“You think?”  
  
“Why  _is_  the freezer blessed, Bobby?”  
  
“Beats me,” Bobby shrugged. “I didn’t know it was. I picked it up when we cleared out Dave Powell’s bolt hole after he bought it out in King’s Canyon. The only thing I’ve ever stored in it was game meat and leftovers. Didn’t know it would bother a demon.”  
  
“How long do you think until they come looking for him? I mean her, I mean… Dean?”  
  
Bobby shuffled a few more tools aside and finally came up with a pair of bolt cutters that had seen better days. “No idea. I’m sure they’re already  _looking_ ; it’s really just a question of how long it takes them to get down to here.” He grunted with effort as the arm of the lock snapped. “Depends on how many people saw him, and how close to the house he was seen at. It’s not like he’s going to be dancing naked in the front window. I imagine he can find a bed to hide under if people get unreasonably nosy about things.”  
  
Sam leaned against a sheet-covered old beater and sighed. “This isn’t fair to her family. There’s going to be security footage of her walking out on her own. They’re going to think she woke up, and then abandoned them, and she’s what? Mid-twenties? Maybe thirty? She might have kids, a husband… what about when Dean’s done with his repair work? Is he just going to leave her out in the woods somewhere and then they  _never_  know what happened?”  
  
“There’re a lot of unfair things in the world, Sam. You of all people should know that.” Bobby glanced towards the house. “Hopefully Dean’s worked out the worst of his bad temper. He’s back; that solves the biggest problem. Let’s just get some dinner and worry about tackling the rest of them in the morning.”

  
~~~~~

 

The shower was running upstairs when they made it back in the house. The muddy boots Dean had borrowed were kicked off in the doorway, and the sheet he’d been wearing was lying by the sink. The stir-fry, forgotten in the excitement, was crispy black on the bottom. Sam scraped it off into the trash can while Bobby examined the contents of his fridge.  
  
“We should have gone to the store today,” he commented.  
  
“We can go tomorrow. No one’s going to starve overnight.”  
  
“I didn’t say we were lacking in food.” Bobby pulled a long foil package out of the bottom of the freezer compartment, turned it over a few times in his hands, and dropped it on the sink with a thud. “Turn the oven on to about four hundred, would you?”  
  
Sam twisted the dial. “What is it?”  
  
“Some kind of pasta, I think. I can’t read most of the label but I’m pretty sure that bottom line says bake for forty-five minutes.”  
  
“Sounds good.” Upstairs, the shower shut off. “Do you have any clothes lying around that might fit… him?”  
  
Bobby frowned. “I might have some old things of Karen’s back in a closet somewhere. A few dresses. Nothing I imagine you’re going to get Dean into.”  
  
“Talking about me?” Dean called from the top of the stairs. When he stepped into the kitchen a minute later he was wearing a well-worn robe Sam had seen hanging in the bathroom for more than twenty years. Both the long, dark hair and pale, oval face of Dean’s newest incarnation looked better for being bathed, and Sam wondered how long she had lain mindless in the hospital.  
  
“You check that thing for spiders?” Bobby asked, nodding to the robe.  
  
Dean snorted. “No spider would dare. Do we have food? Whatever they’ve been feeding this chick, it’s not enough.”  
  
“In a little while.” Bobby pulled out a chair. “Have a seat; tell us about your adventures.”  
  
“Not much to tell,” Dean shrugged and sat.  
  
“There’d better be  _something_  to tell,” Sam growled.  
  
“What do you want from me, Sam? I thought it would only take a few minutes. But it’s hard to tell time when you don’t have a body, and I hadn’t counted on just how much damage you’d done to our link. I got tangled up in something I probably shouldn’t have been messing with, and when I surfaced again, you weren’t where I left you and my body was gone. It was a hell of a lot harder to find you than it should have been, and when I  _did_  track you down, you had no freaking clue I was there! I tried Bobby--”  
  
“Please stop reminding me of that,” Bobby said.  
  
“--and when that didn’t work, I had to go exploring. I found Debbie here and  _voila_! I’m back. What have you been up to?”  
  
“What were you messing with? Did you find out what was causing the problems?”  
  
“Oh, yeah. Some jackass misaligned the wards when they rebuilt that new crypt over the Devil’s Gate. It wasn’t a big deal. I basically just shoved some things around and it lined up okay. Should stop most of the pests. I thought about just blowing the damn thing back up, but without a body, it’s hard for me to act in this Plane at all. Stupid wards.”  
  
“Those wards are the only thing that keep you here,” Sam said pointedly.  
  
“You keep me here too; the wards keep me  _me_.”  
  
“I appreciate your restraint in not blowing up the crypt, again,” Bobby growled. “Rebuilding that thing has taken a lot of time and resources.”  
  
“Maybe you should have done it right, then,” Dean suggested. “The broken piece of rock Sam and I shoved over it last year was doing a better job than that crap that’s on there now.”  
  
“That stone is still there.”  
  
“But not where we left it. Someone thought it would look prettier all nicely set and mounted. I bet that’s what those demons who did that family down in Waco last week were thinking too.”  
  
Bobby rubbed at the bridge of his nose. “You said you fixed it?”  
  
Dean shrugged. “Maybe? I think so. I guess we’ll find out.”  
  
“You were tangled up in the Devil’s Gate wards?”  
  
“You’re a little behind in the conversation, Sam.”  
  
“I’m just trying to grasp how monumentally  _stupid_  that was!”  
  
“And I think that’s my cue to go pick up pizza,” Bobby declared. He poked at the foil package in the oven. “This is going to take forever. Let’s just stick it in the fridge for tomorrow and I’ll go find something else.”  
  
“You don’t have to leave, Bobby,” Sam said, trading annoyed looks with Dean.  
  
“You guys have some things to talk about and I don’t want to be around for the shouting. Do we need anything else while I’m in town?”  
  
“Clothes?” Dean picked at the front of the robe. “Maybe some t-shirts and those cheap shorts with the elastic waist? I have no idea what size this body is.”  
  
“I’ll see what I can do.”  
  
There was silence in the kitchen for a long moment after he left, then Dean pushed away from the table and stood up. “Let’s go upstairs.”

  
~~~~~

 

In the bedroom at the top of the stairs, Sam sat on the bed while Dean riffled through the dressers, apparently in the hopes of finding clothes stuffed away by forgotten guests.  
  
Sam watched, fascinated with Dean’s mannerisms in a female form. The tilt of his head, the way he knelt on the floor, even the set of his borrowed shoulders as he muttered under his breath in irritation and slammed another drawer closed. Like a new cover of a familiar old song.  
  
“Why does Bobby keep all this crap?”  
  
“You wouldn’t call it crap if--”  
  
“I was twelve?” Dean demanded, holding up a badly wrinkled grey t-shirt. “I think this was yours.” Dean gave it a good shake and tried to smooth it out against his body.  
  
Sam was surprised to feel a stab of interest. He was used to wanting Dean, but not like this. Not this casual curl of desire that tightened his stomach and… other things. It wasn’t just the curse. He could feel that too, beating against him from the inside like a fluttering pulse, a siren song of blood and power and sex. Not since Ruby had ensnared him all those years ago had his body taken notice of anyone other than the demon he was bound to -- regardless of how he felt about things. But this was different. This felt almost natural, and that was fascinating in its own right.  
  
Dean gave the shirt another shake and held it up against his chest. “Do you think this will fit over these boobs?”  
  
Sam swallowed hard. “Uh--”  
  
Dean shrugged the robe off impatiently until he was naked to the waist and rolled the shirt down over his head. It was a tight fit. The answer to Dean’s question should really have been no, but with enough squirming and swearing he managed to get it pulled down to his navel.  
  
“Too bad this body still requires breathing,” Dean said disgruntled. “This would be more comfortable if it didn’t.” Dean glanced up to catch Sam’s eye and seemed to notice his attention for the first time. Sam looked away, feeling oddly dirty. Like he’d been caught watching a stranger through the blinds. It was Dean, but it  _wasn’t_ , and the  _wasn’t_  part was very… disturbing.  
  
Sam didn’t know Dean had moved until a hand that felt oddly light settled on his shoulder. It burned through his t-shirt.  
  
“You like this body?” Dean asked.  
  
“I don’t know,” Sam answered honestly. “It’s just different.”  
  
“It’s still me.” A long beat of silence. “You’re the one who said no about breaking the curse, Sam. I offered to do my part. I think you made the right call, but if we’re going to leave it in place, it has to be intact. Otherwise, what the hell’s the point?”  
  
“I just wanted some more space,” Sam tried to explain. “In my head, you know? I didn’t mean to break it down so much. I just… it didn’t used to be so  _all the time_. But after what happened at the Devil’s Gate, it’s like everything was just--”  
  
“Crumbling in on you?”  
  
“Yeah. That’s a great visual, Dean. Just how I want to describe things in my head.”  
  
Dean shrugged. It was a distracting movement for Sam. “You think you can fix it?”  
  
“I think so. I just have to remember what it feels like. I just need to make it feel the same way again. I hope. If it takes more than that…” Sam trailed off ominously. He hadn’t had a lot of luck in the deliberate action part of dealing with the psychic crap.  
  
“Fingers crossed then. Let me help.” Before Sam could protest, Dean shifted onto his knees and leaned in until Sam fell back against the blankets. Dean took advantage of his new position and ran a hand up under Sam’s shirt, resting it over his heart. And just like that, the psychic link between them bloomed as if it had never been disturbed. The strange sense of disconnect that had troubled Sam blew away and something settled back into place in his mind. But it was fragile; he could feel its too sharp edges, like slivered glass. If he moved too quickly it would break.  
  
“Dean, what--”  
  
“I can force it if we’re touching; the old paths are still there. But I can’t  _fix_  it. You have to do that.”  
  
“Okay.” Sam relaxed back against the bed. He didn’t feel awkward anymore; he wasn’t sharing a dark bedroom with a strange woman. He was sharing one with Dean, and it was his brother kneeling beside him on the bed, and his brother who leaned in and kissed him. Like a thousand times before, only this time there was no faint brush of stubble, and the chest that pressed against his was decidedly more padded.  
  
Sam pushed back; he managed to sit up halfway before Dean put a stop to it by the simple expedient of sliding one leg over Sam’s waist and sitting on him. Sam was abruptly reminded that there wasn’t anything on under the robe. “Dean--”  
  
“What  _now_ , Sam?”  
  
“I need to fix  _this_ , and then we can--”  
  
“Then we can what? Share a little blood, make a little love? Get down tonight?”  
  
“I-- don’t think that’s how the song goes. Look, can you get off me so we can talk for a minute?”  
  
“Distracted?” Dean smirked and wiggled a little.  
  
“ _Jesus_ , Dean! Move!”  
  
“I was, and no. I have to touch you to keep this working, and if I have to touch you anyways we may as well be doing this. Otherwise it’s just laying around in a dark room, and how is that fun?”  
  
“I don’t think  _this_  kind of contact is good for concentration,” Sam growled.  
  
“Honestly, Sam, you seem to screw things up when you  _concentrate_. How about you kind of set the autopilot and let’s see if you can do better focusing on something else?”  
  
“We’re going to do  _this_  anyways in a few minutes; it can wait.”  
  
“Right. In a little while when you  _have_  to. But right now you  _want_  to, and it doesn’t have anything to do with the curse. Well, not a  _lot_  to do with the curse. I mean it’s still  _me_  and all, but you seem to like me in this shape. You didn’t think I missed this, did you, Sam?” Dean slid a hand back to run over the front of Sam’s jeans. Sam inhaled sharply and pushed up a little into the pressure despite himself. “When’s the last time you had sex just for fun, Sam? I mean… Ruby, sure. At first. But even that was magic and manipulation. She was hot, but it wasn’t  _hot_  that kept you panting at her heels. So that would make it… ten years?”  
  
“This isn’t  _fun_ , Dean. I don’t want to use people when I don’t have--”  
  
“She’s dead, Sam,” Dean said bluntly, giving up the tease for the moment. “She’s been dead for weeks. The wheel’s spinning but the hamster’s dead,  _dead_. You aren’t  _using_  her, or  _taking advantage_  of her, or any one of your other wheedling excuses for a guilt trip. She’s an empty vessel, but  _I’m_  here now, and I don’t have any problems with it at all. It’ll be weird,” Dean mused, staring down at Sam’s face, “but they say life’s an adventure. Or whatever. I get the same thing out of it either way. Think of it as an early birthday present.”  
  
“A  _birthday_  present--” Sam tried to sit up again despite Dean’s weight, but Dean shoved him flat with no effort. The body might be alive, but Dean was still a demon and Sam was trying his patience.  
  
“We don’t have to, if you  _really_  don’t want to.” Dean raised an eyebrow. “Tell me to move and I’ll sit all nice and pretty on the edge of the bed and we can hold hands while you angst and fuck things up more. You know,  _instead_  of a nice, distracting roll in the sheets.” Dean shifted his weight again and Sam’s body reported in that  _it_  didn’t have any problem with Dean’s suggestion.  
  
Put that way… “I don’t have any condoms.”  
  
Dean rolled his eyes. “I promise not to get knocked up.”  
  
“What if she has something--”  
  
“ _Sam_. I’ve never seen a guy squirm so hard to  _not_  get laid! She doesn’t have anything. I would know, okay? She’s healthy, she’s dead-- shut up,” he warned when Sam opened his mouth, “she’s not going to get pregnant, and we’re running out of time before Bobby gets home and you go all shy again.”  
  
“Yeah,” Sam drew a deep breath, “okay.”  
  
Dean was right; they weren’t hurting anyone. And Sam  _wanted_  this suddenly with a viscerality that surprised him. He ruthlessly squashed the pangs of guilt that insisted there was a victim in this mess and dragged Dean down beside him on the mattress. The robe, loosely tied around Dean’s waist, came free but Sam ignored it for the moment, busy pushing up the shirt that Dean had dragged on with such trouble. He noticed in passing that it  _had_  been one of his, left for decades in the dresser from a long-past trip. He felt skin-hungry, something natural that he couldn’t remember feeling for years. Before Ruby, before the deal, maybe even before death had found him in Cold Oak and the long nightmare had begun. Sam felt free from some subtle constraint that had stained even his most willing interaction with Dean with a faint undercurrent of anger.  
  
And shame.  
  
He could feel Dean now, in his mind. Caught up in revelation and physical drive, he thought he could even feel an edge of the swirling chaos that was his brother’s  _true_  nature, singing through the recently repaired wards that bound him to himself and the Plane. Last year the wards had been gone, blown to bits by the manipulations of Hell. But even then, when he barely knew his own name, Dean had managed to shield him from the worst of the storms. Dean was quiet in his mind now; in a way he never was when it was blood and dark magic driving Sam to this act. He held the fragile pieces of the curse in place with rock-steady concentration and let Sam do as he pleased in the tangible world.  
  
What Sam pleased was everything and all at once. He felt fifteen again and just figuring out what his dick was really good for. But the woman in bed with him wasn’t the sixteen-year-old next door, and there was no need to rush before a parent came looking for them.  
  
As if summoned by that stray thought, a door banged open downstairs and footsteps creaked loudly enough to be heard throughout the house. Sam froze. Dean’s eyes narrowed, and he wrapped both his legs around Sam to keep him in place.  
  
“Anyone want to help carry in food?” Bobby called.  
  
“Busy!” Dean yelled back, giving Sam a conspiratorial grin. Sam grinned back despite himself, caught up by the ridiculousness of the entire situation. He was on the wrong side of thirty-five, Dean was an immortal demon from beyond Hell, and even the body Dean was wearing was well above the age of any parental consent-- but one possible witness on the other side of a locked door and he had to fight back the instinct to spring apart from Dean and arrange clothes back into place.  
  
Sam was only barely aware of what sounded like a muttered, “Oh God,” from somewhere at the bottom of the stairs, and then Dean was kissing him and other distractions quickly faded from concern. Sam's sense of time flowed away into heat and sensation, fun in a sense that sex hadn’t been in far, far too long. Dean was distracted holding the curse in place; he was still a participant, but lazily, letting Sam set the pace and moving agreeably in tune to Sam’s movements and Sam’s needs. Sam wasn’t sure if Dean was taking his cue from their bodies or from the hazy, half-formed thoughts that occupied his mind. It didn’t matter, _nothing_  mattered, and sometime between shaking release and a blood-tinged kiss with Dean’s bitten lips, that fragile glass piece in his mind flared incandescent and seared back into place. He didn’t track well after that.  
  
“I think I’m dead,” Sam mumbled some time later. Curses didn’t care about refractory periods or the normal limits of the human male, but his body did, and it felt like he’d been beaten. Slim fingers viciously pinched the delicate skin above the inside of his elbow. Sam yelped and rolled away.  
  
“Just checking,” Dean said in tones of deep satisfaction.  
  
Sam sat against the wall and rubbed at his arm, glaring. Or trying to; his eyelids kept trying to fall closed.  
  
“Dean?”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“Why the sheet?”  
  
“You should have seen what I was dressed in to start with. Trust me, the sheet was an improvement.” Dean sat up beside him on the bed. “I smell pizza.”  
  
“Mmmmhmmm.”  
  
“You going to stay awake long enough to eat something, Sam?” Dean glanced at him. “Sam?”  
  
“Mmmmmmm...” Sam slid a little until he was leaning on Dean’s shoulder. Dean rolled his eyes and moved so that Sam flopped onto the bed. He curled around to find the pillow and showed absolutely no further signs of moving. Dean rested a hand on Sam’s bare skin and closed his eyes, checking for any chinks in the bond between them, but it hummed along as bright as it had ever been. Too bright, probably; it was more powerful than it had been under Lilith’s hand.  
  
As she had designed it, their minds had barely brushed, moving in cycles that fed the curse’s original purpose. Sam  _had_  changed it, but slowly, instinctively, shaping it gradually into something that served the needs of his subconscious more than his waking mind. Dean had been nearly ripped from him twice, and each time the bond burned brighter and stronger as Sam’s grip tightened. That Sam feared losing him was obvious, but the side effect… Dean sighed. The curse was Sam’s, and there was only so far he could draw back in it. But he could be more careful how much he projected, and try to build some walls, and maybe that would be enough. Sam trying to mess with it deliberately had been a clusterfuck of monumental proportions.  
  
Dean walked naked across the hall to get a washcloth, uncaring if Bobby was around to get an eyeful. He cleaned Sam up and pulled the rumpled blankets up to cover him, then fished around for his shirt. Sam’s discarded boxers, folded down and tucked, would make reasonable shorts, but he wasn’t going to bother dressing until he took another shower. The girl thing was kind of interesting, but the details were annoying.  
  
Pizza would sadly have to wait.

  
~~~~~

 

“So, why this woman?” Sam asked late the next morning around a mouthful of toaster pastry. Dean opened his eyes and gave his brother an unfriendly look. He was sitting on the bare ground next to a fresh mound of dirt, and Sam, with his strawberry poptarts and curiosity, was not welcome.  
  
“So glad you could join me; you missed the burial,” Dean said instead of answering.  
  
Sam looked distinctly un-guilty. “I was sleeping. Was it a nice service?”  
  
“Bobby dropped me  _twice_  hauling me out of that fucking freezer!”  
  
“Did anything snap off like it does in the movies?”  
  
Dean glared. “It took me half an hour to dig this hole by myself.”  
  
“A whole thirty minutes to dig a grave; I’m just crying on the inside.”  
  
“You’re going to be crying on the outside if you don’t quit bugging me.”  
  
Sam sat on the ground next to him instead. He held out one of the poptarts like a peace offering. After a moment, Dean grudgingly accepted.  
  
“Why this woman?” Sam repeated. “She can’t have been the only one, wherever you found her.”  
  
Dean glanced at the bracelet he still wore on one wrist. “County Regional? It’s that big hospital down--”  
  
“I know where it is.”  
  
Dean shrugged. “It was hard to feel my way around. I could have looked for a long-term care place, but I was in a hurry by that point. I wanted a body that I didn’t have to do much rebuilding on. Hospitals don’t usually keep these kind of vegetative patients on hand, so there wasn’t exactly a lot of selection. It was this one, an eighty-year-old stroke victim, or a guy in his twenties who probably weighed as much as both of us combined. All things considered, I figured this would work out best.”  
  
“So she hadn’t been there long?”  
  
“I didn’t examine her file, Sam. The bracelet says she’s been there about a month. Long enough to look like a vampire and start losing some tone, not long enough to require a complete system overhaul.”  
  
“And she was brain dead.”  
  
“Yup. Now go bother Bobby or something, I’ve got work to do.”  
  
Sam ate his poptart in contemplative silence for a few minutes. He hadn’t wanted to bury Dean’s body, but now Dean was sitting beside him and Sam was less concerned with the location of his physical remains.  
  
“Things seem better today,” Sam said abruptly, disrupting Dean, who had just started to sink back into his trance.  
  
“We did our little thing yesterday,” Dean said absently, still only half paying attention. “Of course things are better for you.”  
  
“I don’t mean that, though thanks. I always appreciate not dying.”  
  
“Not always.”  
  
Sam rolled his eyes, but the clear mid-morning skies and the bright sunlight kept the darkness of those memories at bay. “I  _usually_  appreciate not dying. Happy?”  
  
“Sure. What are we talking about?”  
  
“The curse; it’s like it was before. But… almost  _before_ , before. You know? I can feel you, but it’s not _oppressive_. I don’t feel like I’m being smothered or something. It’s just… better.”  
  
“I’m trying, Sam. Maybe we can work something out, get some advice from Missouri or a book, ‘Metaphysical Auras For Dummies.’ For now I’m just working on the barricades from my end, trying to keep some more psychic space between us.”  
  
“You said more might be dangerous, might start inhibiting your senses or something.”  
  
“Not as dangerous as letting you mess with your end, obviously,” Dean snorted. “It might make me miss some things I wouldn’t have before; I might be slower to pick up stuff. A little fuzzy around the edges. It’ll be fine.”  
  
“Until it isn’t.”  
  
“That’s about the best you can usually hope for, Sam.”  
  
Sam nodded. He wasn’t happy about crippling Dean, but he wasn’t willing to trade his newfound autonomy for it either. Yet. He motioned towards the pile of loose dirt just beyond their feet. “How long is this going to take?”  
  
“Well gee, Sam. I’m having to repair putrefaction, freezer damage, oh yeah-- and everything is just _dripping_  with Order. I can’t  _imagine_  whose fault  _that_  is.”  
  
“Probably from being frozen.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“The dripping part.”  
  
Dean’s borrowed fists tightened. “You should get away from me right now.”  
  
Sam made a show of standing slowly, stretching, and sauntering casually back across the field. Dean could hear him whistling-- badly-- as he vanished into the house.

  
~~~~~

 

Dean stayed outside in the field beside the burial until dark. He would have stayed all night, but there were needs that weighed heavily on his borrowed body. For one thing, it seemed to be always hungry. Bobby was grilling outside, and Dean’s stomach had been growling for over an hour before he finally detangled himself from the tedium of cellular repair and headed back to the house. Rough gravel cut into the tender soles of his feet, but the effort to fix bruises was less annoying than clomping around in oversized shoes.  
  
He made an effort to brush off the dried grass and dirt that clung to his skin where the shorts didn’t cover. None of the clothes Bobby had brought back from a thrift store had really fit, but they fit well enough to stay on and didn’t bother him much.  
  
Hair was another matter. Dean found his long hair irritating to wash and irritating to wear, and really irritating in bed when it got tangled in hands and stuck to sweaty skin, but when he’d grabbed a convenient pair of scissors in the kitchen, Sam made a small noise that sounded like protest. Dean raised an eyebrow at him and Sam only shrugged, but Dean ended up leaving the long strands alone. It was a decision he regretted less once Sam handed him a rubber band and he was able to tie the mess of it up out of his way.  
  
“Burgers?” He could hear Bobby on the phone in the hallway. The conversation sounded tense, but Dean wasn’t interested in run-of-the-mill hunting business and didn’t bother to eavesdrop like he might have in another lifetime.  
  
Sam handed him a plate. “I wasn’t sure you were going to come in. I was about to bring this out.”  
  
“Afraid I might starve?”  
  
“Wanted to make sure you hadn’t been eaten by coyotes.”  
  
Dean snorted at the idea.  
  
Sam sat across from him at the table. “Are you going back out tonight?”  
  
“No reason not to.” Dean helped himself to a handful of chips off Sam’s plate. “The sooner I finish, the sooner we can get back to business. I forgot what a pain in the ass a living body is. I’m cold, I’m hot, I’m itchy, I’m thirsty. It never ends.”  
  
“You thinking of doing something--”  
  
“Terminal?” Dean finished with a raised eyebrow. He dropped his carrot sticks on Sam’s plate and grabbed a few more chips before Sam scowled and moved the plate out of his reach. “No, it’s not nearly as much of a pain as your whining would be if I did that. Besides, it’s not that I don’t usually feel these things, it’s just not usually important that I respond to them. My usual body’s not alive like this one, but I still run it like a living system.”  
  
Sam let that pass without comment, turning attention to demolishing his own plate of food. What Dean had left unmolested, anyways.  
  
Bobby stormed through the kitchen a moment later, grabbed his jacket from a hook and vanished through the door with a growled, “I’m going out.”  
  
The truck started a moment later.  
  
“That can’t be good,” Dean observed.  
  
Sam shrugged, still concentrating on his food, but Dean didn’t miss the occasional furtive glance in his direction.  
  
“Did you want something?” Dean finally asked.  
  
“Nope.”  
  
“Uh huh. So what did you do today?”  
  
“Washed clothes, cleaned a gun and looked for any reports on your little medical miracle.”  
  
“Anything?”  
  
“Not really. The internet mentioned her being in some kind of car accident, but it wasn’t big news when it happened so that’s just a blurb. They didn’t even spell her name right. They ran her picture on the five o’clock news today with a request for information on any sightings, but not really any details.” Sam hesitated. “There was an interview with her fiancé. Mostly him just crying and begging for the public’s help.”  
  
“Oh, I’m sure.”  
  
“The guy’s messed up, Dean. Wouldn’t you be? First she’s brain dead, and then she just gets up and walks out and vanishes into the night! This has got be tearing him up.”  
  
“He’ll get over it,” Dean said, unconcerned. “Did you get the car cleaned out?”  
  
Sam didn’t look like he was quite done with the previous topic, but he let it drop. There wasn’t any place for the conversation to go. The woman  _was_  dead, and it wasn’t like  _Dean_  could offer the guy any kind of resolution. Having the demon inhabiting his vegetative fiancée’s body call up and insult him was unlikely to provide the kind of closure he needed.  
  
“I’m willing to share a lot of bodily fluids with you, Dean, but I’m not touching the trunk. Your body, your mess.”  
  
“I didn’t stuff me in there!”  
  
“I used a tarp.  _Your_  tarp,” Sam said heartlessly. “It’s not my fault if it had a rip.”  
  
“You owe me,” Dean retorted. “A little matter of a  _sanctified freezer_  and an unnatural aversion to honest labor.”  
  
“Do you really want to get into who owes who after this last little adventure?” Sam demanded. “You got a little turned around and have to wear a girl for awhile. You left  _me_  in a motel room with a corpse and I _almost died_.”  
  
“You caused the problem in the first place!”  
  
“I didn’t tell you to take your disembodied ass on a cross-country adventure!”  
  
“Do we have any more burgers?”  
  
“No,” Sam growled.  
  
Dean got up to rummage through the fridge, but he was aware of Sam’s eyes on his back the entire time. It felt almost… contemplative. And not like Sam was contemplating violence. Dean was exasperated enough to feel around the edges of their connection, not really invading his brother’s privacy, more just… sampling the flavor of whatever was on the surface.  
  
And what was there was very interesting.  
  
Dean closed the fridge without grabbing anything and turned to face Sam, but Sam had his nose buried firmly in a magazine. Still with the sidelong glances though. Dean shrugged inwardly and pulled his t-shirt off. Bras were not something Bobby had been successful in obtaining, and Dean had a whole new appreciation for why women wore them, but it wasn’t worth a trip to town to pick up one that would fit. Too risky.  
  
“What are you doing?” Sam asked in a strangled tone.  
  
“If you’re going to look, you might as well get the entire view.”  
  
“Jesus, Dean. I wasn’t--”  
  
“Ogling me?”  
  
“No, I mean--”  
  
“Chill, Sam. It’s new, it’s different, it’s a nice looking body. Speaking of which: Bobby’s gone.”  
  
Sam blinked and tore his gaze back to Dean’s face. “So?”  
  
“So…” Dean raised an eyebrow and gave a meaningful look towards the stairs.  
  
Considering how hard it usually was to coax Sam into bed, it was almost irritating how fast he accepted.

  
~~~~~

 

“It’s interesting,” Dean commented to the ceiling half an hour later.  
  
“What is?” Sam mumbled into his pillow. He was stretched out on his belly, one arm thrown over Dean’s waist. The bed really wasn’t big enough for the both of them, but Deborah May fit more comfortably against Sam’s side than Dean usually did in the cramped space.  
  
“Casual sex. No curse, no angsty whining. Almost like I remember.” He glanced down at himself. His ghost-pale skin was already showing faint bruises where things had gotten a little over enthusiastic. The curve of his breast, the swell of his hip. There was a faded white line low on Dean’s stomach, an old caesarian scar. Dean wasn’t sure Sam had noticed, or would know what it was if he did.  _Dean_  knew, but he had advantages that he had no intention of sharing with Sam. “The details are a little different.”  
  
Sam propped himself up on one elbow. “We’ve had sex when we didn’t have to before.”  
  
“Not like this.”  
  
“Well, no, not like  _this_.” Sam splayed the fingers of his free hand over the sweep of Dean’s ribcage. It was a possessive gesture, and most unusual from Sam. Overt possessiveness only tended to run one way in their relationship.  
  
Dean lay still for a moment, then rolled his eyes and shoved at Sam’s arm until he was free to sit up. “You know what I’m talking about. We have sex outside of the curse on the odd alternate Tuesday because you’re a healthy guy and I’m the only game in town for you, but you don’t really  _want_  to. Not like you wanted to now.”  
  
“I don’t remember you complaining.”  
  
“I’m not; I just said it was interesting.” Dean climbed off the end of the bed and went to the bathroom across the hall to clean up. He came back a few minutes later with a damp washcloth he tossed to Sam and bent to gather up his clothes.  
  
Sam made quick work with the washcloth and dropped it on his own discarded shirt. He planned to shower before he got dressed again. “You going?”  
  
“I’ve got work to do, Sam.”  
  
“It can’t wait until morning?”  
  
“Morning, evening, it’s all the same.” Dean was distracted looking for his shorts. It was a tiny room; they couldn’t have gone that far. Sam sat up and untangled the missing garment from the bedding. Dean muttered a thanks as he took them.  
  
“It’s just--”  
  
“Just what, Sam? Were you serious about the coyotes earlier? Because I’ve got to tell you, it’s only humans I’m fooling. There’s not a self-respecting coyote, bear, wolf, cougar, hungry housecat, stray dog or anything else you can think of that will get near me. I’m as safe in that field as I am in this bed.”  
  
“Right but… that body still needs rest. If you think it’s irritating now, just wait until it’s literally half-dead from exhaustion.”  
  
“I’m not planning to be in it that long.”  
  
“You said  _weeks_ , Dean. Remember what it used to feel like when you didn’t sleep just for a day or two?”  
  
“No, but I know how bitchy you get when you miss a few hours. I can compensate for physical tiredness.”  
  
“Which just takes more of your energy.”  
  
Dean crossed his arms and eyed his brother appraisingly. “What’s this really about?”  
  
Sam scooted over until his back was pressed against the wall, leaving half the bed free. “You need sleep… and I don’t like the idea of you sitting out there all night alone.”  
  
“I’m not in any danger, Sam.” He paused. “You wouldn’t have cared before.”  
  
“Yeah,” Sam met his eyes, “I would have.”  
  
The ghost of a smile touched Dean’s lips. “Maybe. You sure it’s not the girl thing?”  
  
Sam rolled his eyes. “It’s a ‘get over here and sleep’ thing, Dean. I don’t have an agenda except not having to put up with your bad attitude when not-sleeping bites you in the ass. Besides, it’s cold. Bed’s warmer with two.”  
  
“Bobby’s insulation sucks,” Dean agreed. He sat on the edge of the bed. “One of us should probably go wash up in the kitchen. Seeing as we’re freeloading guests and all. It’d be inconvenient for Bobby to decide to throw us out.”  
  
Sam grabbed his arm and pulled until Dean was lying beside him on the ancient mattress. It did feel nice to stretch out, though Dean would have cut off a hand before he admitted it to Sam.  
  
“I’ll cook breakfast in the morning,” Sam said. “Make some pancakes and clean up then. We’ve almost ended the world, turned half his junkyard to dust when you were more out of your mind than usual last year, and I showed up last week with a corpse in the trunk. Not to mention all the crap Dad pulled when we were kids. Bobby’s not going to kick us out over  _dishes_. Get the light?”  
  
Dean glanced at the alarm clock on the nightstand as he reached to turn off the lamp. “It’s kind of early for bed, isn’t it?”  
  
“I’m old.” Sam threw his arm over Dean’s waist again and settled into his pillow with an air of great satisfaction.  
  
Dean frowned. “You’re not  _that_  old.”  
  
“Older, then.”  
  
“Whatever. And thanks for giving me the wet spot.”  
  
Sam snorted softly, but in a few minutes had slipped deep under the edge of slumber. Dean let his borrowed body follow suit. With Sam asleep, he had no need to cripple himself and let his senses range out over Bobby’s property until he was aware of even the mice that stirred in the rafters of the barn. Enjoying what passed for a demon’s sleep while Sam rested, safe and oblivious, beside him. It wasn’t always so easy, but Bobby’s land was old stomping grounds and Dean settled over it with the effortlessness of long familiarity.  
  
Safety was a fleeting state, and to be enjoyed when it occurred.

  
~~~~~

 

Sam beat Dean to the shower in the morning and refused to share. He had some argument about concussions and elbow room that he seemed pretty passionate about, so Dean perched his lighter-than-usual-ass on the laundry hamper and waited. And if he occasionally flushed the toilet to encourage Sam to hurry up, well, Sam should have been more chivalrous. There had to be  _some_  perks to being a girl, however temporary. Showering first seemed like it should be one of them. Dean had always let  _his_ girlfriends shower first.  
  
Bored, he extended one leg and pressed the handle on the toilet again with his toes. From the shower, Sam gave a strangled yelp and stuck his head out to scowl. “Quit it!”  
  
“If you didn’t keep stopping to yell at me, you would have been done by now.”  
  
“Gee,” Sam yelled from behind the curtain, “I can’t imagine what my problem is!”  
  
“You use up all the hot water playing games and you’ll see what problems  _really_  are.”  
  
There was another strangled sound from behind the curtain, but this one sounded more like choked-off rage. Dean was contemplating another flush when the water shut off and Sam stormed out.  
  
“All clean?” Dean asked.  
  
Sam snarled something and stalked past him. A moment later, the bedroom door slammed.  
  
Sam was in the kitchen making pancakes when Dean finished his own bathing and wandered down to find food. Bobby was there too, looking none the worse for whatever his evening crisis had been as he flipped through the paper.  
  
“Everything okay?” Dean asked.  
  
Bobby glanced at him over the paper. “Do you care?”  
  
“I’m being polite, showing an interest. You want me to stop?”  
  
“Please.”  
  
“Well, I’m  _actually_  interested.” Sam set a platter of pancakes on the edge of the table beside a couple of plates and forks. “What happened?”  
  
Bobby folded up his paper and grabbed a plate. “Nothing that’s likely to snowball. You tell someone not to do something, they do it anyways, and then other people get to clean up the mess. I dumped it in someone else’s lap. They’re closer-- what the hell am I going to do about a blasted harpy in South Carolina from here?”  
  
“That’s why you stormed out of here last night?”  
  
“Oh. That. Had to run down to the sheriff’s office. I have a contact there who wanted some advice on something.”  
  
“Hanging out with the local authorities?” Dean raised an eyebrow. “Doesn’t seem healthy.”  
  
Bobby shrugged. “I’ve reason to stop by on occasion.”  
  
Sam and Dean exchanged knowing looks.  
  
“Does the reason have a name?” Sam asked.  
  
“No,” Bobby answered gruffly, but he couldn’t do much about the flush on the back of his neck.  
  
“Uh huh. Invite her over for the next shindig,” Dean suggested. “Burgers, beer, babes. We should really meet the future Mrs. Singer.”  
  
“Right, because you’re  _exactly_  who I’d want to introduce a lady-friend to.”  
  
“What’s wrong with me?” Dean asked around a mouthful of pancake.  
  
“We don’t have that kind of time.” Bobby rolled his eyes. “But speaking of time… I have a little task for you guys this morning.”  
  
“I already have a task, but feel free to use Sam here. I do.”  
  
Sam settled at the table with his own plate. “Thanks, Dean.”  
  
“Oh, I think you both can tackle this one. In fact, I insist.” Bobby’s smile was more edged than friendly. “Considering how hospitable and  _understanding_  I’ve been and all over the years.”  
  
It was an argument that was hard to refute.  
  
“Fine,” Dean glanced at the clock, “but this had better not take all day.”

  
~~~~~

 

“This is going to take all freaking day,” Sam said flatly, surveying the waist- and knee-high piles of slivered metal that covered that part of the junkyard. Sam remembered when the heaps were shiny and new, snowfall in midsummer and the green of his brother’s eyes swallowed by spiraling gray. Time and weather had rusted the top layers and blown them down somewhat into the tall grass that grew up between them.  
  
Time changed everything.  
  
“I was thinking this place looked less cluttered,” Dean mused aloud as he kicked at one.  
  
“Shut up, Dean. Aren’t you the one with the tight schedule?”  
  
“A few hours here, a few hours there… besides, this particular mess actually  _is_  our fault.”  
  
“Your fault, Dean. This mess is  _your_  fault.”  
  
“Hey, I wouldn’t have been here to do this damage if it wasn’t for you.”  
  
Sam gave him an annoyed look.  
  
“I don’t care who you guys want to blame; all I know is it wasn’t  _my_  fault.” Bobby handed Sam a couple of shovels. “Just get up as much as you can. Put it in those dumpsters over there.”  
  
Dean eyed the dumpsters in question skeptically. “And after we fill them up with a few cars' worth of metal, how exactly are you going to move them?”  
  
“Problem for another day. First step is getting all this crap off the ground so I can actually use the place.”  
  
Dean scuffed his foot against another low pile, revealing the shimmer of unexposed metal flakes beneath. “I don’t know, Bobby. It’s kind of pretty, don’t you think?”  
  
“I think you turned about three dozen cars of perfectly good scrap into  _glitter_ , Dean. So how about you just help clean it up and then we never mention it again?”  
  
“Fine. We’re never going to get it all out of the grass, though. Hope you’ve got some awesome magnets.”  
  
“Get what you can with the shovel. We’ll go from there.”  
  
Sam sighed and went to borrow some gloves from the barn.  
  
The day wore on under the monotony of shoveling. Sam was grateful it was cool, and that Dean wasn’t bitching about doing the lion’s share of the work. It was only fair; Dean  _had_  caused the problem, even though he was out of his mind at the time. He also had the advantage of demonic strength that wasn’t easily fatigued by physical labor, and the supernatural ability to heal human muscles even as he strained them to shredding. Sam, on the other hand, enjoyed neither advantage, and spent a lot of time wiping sweat from his forehead and watching enviously as Dean went through piles like it was confetti he was lifting and not fragmented steel.  
  
It was exhausting work. Sam sat down for a minute and closed his eyes, just a moment’s reprieve… then jumped and turned when something icy and wet touched the back of his neck.  
  
“Here.” Dean was holding out a water bottle that Sam took gratefully. “I grabbed some sandwiches too, while I was in the house. Since you were so busy napping and all.”  
  
Sam got up and followed Dean over to one of the few trees near the house. They sat together in the shade and contemplated the remaining task in silence for a few minutes. There was still a lot of loose metal in the yard but most of it was picked up. Sam estimated a couple more hours before they could call it a day.  
  
“We’re going to need another dumpster,” Dean observed. Sam, halfway through a baloney sandwich, only nodded in agreement. “Think Bobby will care if we just pile it up in one place until he can get his hands on one?”  
  
“You could ask him.”  
  
“I don’t think Bobby really wants to talk with me right now, Sam. Maybe you want to go beard the lion?”  
  
“I don’t think he’s still mad about the cars. He just needed it cleaned up without having to explain how it happened.”  
  
Dean crossed long legs at the ankle and leaned back against the tree. He’d gracelessly caved to borrowing boots again rather than spend the day kicking barefoot through metal shards. “You want to know whose fault this really is? Look no further than our intrepid host.”  
  
“I’m not sure you turning half his junkyard into steel mulch is the predictable result of his failing to chase us off with a shotgun every time we drop by,” Sam said dubiously.  
  
“No, but it’s the predictable result of warding this place to kingdom come and then being careless about how they're targeted.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“You  _seriously_  can’t feel this place?”  
  
Sam looked around at the familiar rusting cars, the open fields, the barn with its subtle list, and the house itself, flaking paint and all. “No it’s… just like it always is.”  
  
“Yeah, and it’s  _always_  been a dizzying playground of mystical  _whateverness_. Everything Bobby could come up with, including the kitchen sink, is laced through this place. I mean, some of these things were set before we were even born. Nothing like your old place pre-cremation, but still impressive.”  
  
A bird trilled in the tree overhead, breaking the quiet peace around them. A gentle breeze rippled the golden, knee-high grasses of Bobby’s neglected fields beyond the edges of the junkyard. In between the waving fronds, Sam could sometimes catch sight of the dark mound of disturbed earth where Dean’s corpse was entombed, waiting. At their backs, the house loomed, as solid and timeless as it had ever been.  
  
“I don’t feel anything at all.”  
  
“You didn’t feel anything in that spook-infested nightmare of an asylum down in Florida either. I’m starting to have grave doubts about these psychic claims of yours, Sammy. I mean, how did you think Bobby kept a well-known, permanent address and  _hasn’t_  been turned into kibble yet?”  
  
“I seem to recall being jumped by demons here once, Dean.”  
  
“I told you it wasn’t perfect, but it’s a damn good effort.”  
  
“And how does this make your mulching his scrap pile his fault again?”  
  
“He wasn’t terribly picky when he whipped these things up, or had whoever do the whipping for him. Most of it just seems to be general warnings, some of them are pretty specific, but a few of them find  _you_ interesting, and I doubt I would have tolerated that well. You know,  _before_. I’m not thrilled about it now, but I figure if they haven’t smacked you yet, then there’s probably nothing worth getting excited about.”  
  
“Some of them are targeting me?” Sam looked around again, more warily this time, but… everything still seemed normal.  
  
“Yeah, they sparkle and flash when you get too close, or worse,  _stop_  sparkling and flashing. They’re all over the cars, the barn, the house, the fence posts. You didn’t think Bobby kept this many cars lying around just because he loves a good snake infestation, did you? It’s not as good as iron for pure protection, but steel takes a spell better, and this house is surrounded. Less so now, I guess. I could have done a better job,” Dean added critically.  
  
Sam eyed the piles of metal still in the grass, most of them shiny again now that the top rusted layers had been shoveled off. “I think you did more than enough.”  
  
“Not when this many of the irritants survived the destruction. Digging through these piles is like mining little stars.”  
  
“Maybe you weren’t trying to destroy them,” Sam suggested, still looking around, trying to catch a hint of the  _something_  that Dean insisted was there.  
  
“Maybe not,” Dean shrugged. “Maybe I was just blowing off steam. Hard to say; memories are pretty fuzzy.”  
  
“I wish mine were.” Sam finished the last of his water and got reluctantly to his feet. “Ready to finish up?”  
  
“All I’m saying is that Bobby better have  _steaks_  in that freezer of his.”  
  
Sam’s gaze was drawn inadvertently to the barn. “I don’t think you should bring up the subject of freezers with Bobby this visit.”  
  
“You know,” Dean said as he picked up his own shovel, “the list of things we shouldn’t discuss with Bobby is going to limit conversation to the weather pretty soon.”  
  
The afternoon wore on much as the morning had. Sam wished for nothing more than a cold beer and a hot bath, but Dean kept on tirelessly, his exhaustion only obvious when a sheriff’s cruiser rounded the last turn of the driveway and neither of them noticed until it was too late. Dean swore and tossed his shovel down, waiting with arms crossed as the car pulled to a stop by the house.  
  
“Dean,” Sam said tightly.  
  
“I  _know_ , Sam!” Dean hissed. “But what do you want me to do? They’ve already seen me; running off now only looks like we’ve got something to hide.”  
  
“We  _do_  have something to hide!” Sam hissed back.  
  
“Better get used to calling me Deb,” Dean replied. He pasted a smile firmly on his face and walked over to greet the dark-haired woman who was climbing out of the cruiser, expression wary as she glanced between the two of them. Sam tried to imagine how they must look to her: him in his filthy t-shirt and ripped jeans, with shaggy hair, covered in grime and sweat from a day of hard labor; and Dean, equally filthy, wearing an oversized red spaghetti strap top, neon plaid shorts, boots that were clearly five sizes too large, and the hospital bracelet that he seemed to view as some kind of trophy and refused to take off.  
  
Yeah, he’d be eyeing them oddly too.  
  
“Deborah May?” the sheriff asked slowly.  
  
“Hey, Sheriff, um--”  
  
“Mills, Jody Mills. Don’t you remember me?”  
  
“Maybe?” Dean tried a winsome smile. Sam thought it was a pretty good effort, but maybe not to someone who had known Deborah May Mason when she was still herself. “Some things are still kind of scrambled. You looked familiar, but names--” Dean shrugged one mostly bare shoulder.  
  
“Right.” The sheriff still seemed on edge. Sam dropped his own shovel and concentrated on looking unthreatening. More challenging since he was nearly a foot taller than either of them and hadn’t bothered to shave. “You know, a lot of people have been looking for you. Your neighbors out on Blaylock have organized a sign-hanging committee to plaster the area with 'missing' posters.”  
  
“I just needed some to get myself together. It’s been kind of a lot, you know?”  
  
“What has?” Her gaze flickered between the two of them, uncertain which she should watch. Dean seemed to notice too. He brightened his smile and gestured for Sam to come closer. Sam did so hesitantly. When he was in range, Dean wrapped one arm firmly around his waist.  
  
“Just things, big changes. You haven’t met Sam, have you?”  
  
Sheriff Mill’s finally seemed to relax a little. “Sam who?”  
  
“Smith,” Sam said firmly, leaning forward and offering his hand. Sheriff Mills shook it, looking almost as bemused as Sam felt.  
  
“And you are…?”  
  
“My fiancé,” Dean announced, tightening his arm around Sam when Sam stiffened with surprise. “He’s been taking care of me while I sort some things out.”  
  
Sam was less than happy to be dragged into Dean’s incessant need to stir the pot, but stepped up his effort to project benign friendliness.  
  
“Carl’s going to be surprised to hear about that,” the sheriff said. “The kids might be a little surprised too.”  
  
Dean shrugged. “The kids will love him. As for Carl--” Dean’s expression hardened. “I think we both know I’m better off without him. Sam’s an old flame; he just happened to be in the right place and the right time when I needed him.”  
  
“So you’re okay?” Sheriff Mills asked, still glancing between the two of them.  
  
“I--” was all Dean got out before the porch door swung open and Bobby stepped out.  
  
“Jody?”  
  
“Bobby.” Sheriff Mills seemed pleased to see a familiar face. “I was just solving a missing person’s case here in your yard. Care to comment?”  
  
Bobby took in the tableau, then sighed. “Yeah, I suppose I’d better. How about you come in and we have this talk over coffee and whatever I can find in the pantry?”  
  
“Best suggestion I’ve heard all afternoon. You too, Deborah May; you’re not leaving my sight until we hash some things out.”  
  
Dean fell obediently in line behind the sheriff, keeping a firm grip on Sam’s arm when Sam tried to peel away.  
  
“Don’t even think it,” Dean whispered, when Sheriff Mills was too far ahead to overhear.  
  
“You aren’t the one featuring on wanted posters,” Sam whispered back harshly. “Not like  _this_.”  
  
“Those posters are a decade old. I think a woman who spends time with  _Bobby_ , of all people, has too much on her plate to be busy memorizing ten-year-old warrants.”  
  
“That’s great, Dean. Going to bake me a cake with a file when you turn out to be wrong?”  
  
“What are you guys whispering about back there?” Sheriff Mills called from the porch.  
  
“Sam’s being sweet; we’ve been arguing about the wedding and he was wondering if the kids would like to be in the ceremony.”  
  
Sam shot Dean a poisonous look the sheriff couldn’t see. Dean’s smile only widened.  
  
“Has he met them?”  
  
“Not yet, but I just know everything will be perfect.”  
  
“Uh huh.” The Sheriff made a noncommittal sound and held the screen door open to usher them through. Bobby glanced them both over when they walked in.  
  
“Maybe you lovebirds should go grab another shower while I talk to Jody for a few minutes. There’s no exits up there,” he added when the Sheriff looked inclined to protest, “I don’t think Debbie’s going to scale the side of the house to avoid a little conversation. What’s going on with the new construction at the school?”  
  
Sam and Dean made a hasty escape up the staircase while Jody was distracted with local news.  
  
“What are we going to do?” Sam demanded when they were safely closeted in the bathroom.  
  
Dean shrugged. “Clean up, go back downstairs.”  
  
“She  _knows_  you, Dean! Or Deborah, she knows Deborah May Mason. How long do you think you can fake this?”  
  
“Fake what, Sam?” Dean asked, an expression of mock concern on his face. “I’m not  _faking_  anything; it’s common knowledge that a serious head injury can affect the memory. I just have to seem not incompetent, and eventually the nice sheriff lady Bobby wants to bang will wander off on her merry way.”  
  
“And tell everyone where to find you? How well are you going to dodge tearful relatives and who the hell is  _Carl_?”  
  
“Jealous?”  
  
Sam’s eyes narrowed. Dean rolled his.  
  
“Judging from what was said downstairs, I assume Carl is the tragic fiancé. Didn’t you say you saw him on some news report?”  
  
“She has  _kids_ , Dean.”  
  
“Yeah, Sam; I  _know_.”  
  
“How did you  _know_ ,” Sam ground out. “That wasn’t in any of the reports I saw.”  
  
Dean kicked off his shorts and pointed to the thin white line low on his belly. “Did you think she got this from a really weirdly placed appendectomy?”  
  
Sam stared at the scar for a moment. “You implied something else, something about Carl. The sheriff understood. What was that about?”  
  
Dean turned the faucet over to hot and waited while the icy water warmed up. “Logical deduction. This body had a lot of old fractures and deep bruises when I moved in. Some were from the car accident, but there was a good selection of older ones.  _Someone_  was beating the crap out of her, and Jody’s aura flared when she mentioned his name. She seriously doesn’t like Carl. I put the two together and it paid off.”  
  
“That’s some impressively quick thinking.”  
  
“And yet somehow, that doesn’t sound like a compliment.”  
  
Sam wasn’t making any move to get undressed. Dean shrugged his own shirt off and grabbed the hem of Sam’s, shoving upwards, raking nails, cracked from the day’s work, up Sam’s chest and to his shoulders until he could push the shirt over the top of Sam’s uncooperative head. He rubbed his cheek over the tattoo on Sam’s chest, each line of ink burning like dry ice against his borrowed skin. Anti-possession wards didn’t like being touched by demons. Sam didn’t respond at all, tension singing through his frame. A song of indecision.  
  
Dean knew exactly what the problem was. “She’s gone, Sam.”  
  
“Are you sure?” Sam asked, a distrust in his eyes that Dean had gotten used to not seeing.  
  
Trust, another casualty of Sam’s insistence on space. He’d lied freely to Sam before, when the situation made it expedient, but for the last year or so Sam had  _known_  when he was lying, even if he wasn’t always sure about what. A kind of honesty between them that still left room for the deceptions and half-truths that let any two people live together in peace.  
  
“I’m sure that if I’d left her lying there, she’d have stayed lying there until the day her heart stopped beating,” Dean said firmly.  
  
Sam sighed and scrubbed a hand through his hair. “We should clean up.”

  
~~~~~

 

They eventually made it back downstairs, Sam in the suit pants he seldom had call to wear anymore and a button-up from the same collection of JC Penny’s finest, and Dean in a t-shirt and belted shorts that at least pretended to match, long, dark hair straggling wet over his shoulders. Jody and Bobby were sitting next to each other at the table, sipping coffee and chatting. Sheriff Mills straightened up when Sam and Dean walked in, her manner vastly more relaxed than earlier and a sparkle of good humor in her otherwise serious expression.  
  
“You look better cleaned up, Deborah. Certainly better than the last time I saw you. You know what kind of hysteria they’ve been having at the hospital over you?”  
  
Dean shrugged and took one of the empty chairs. “Sorry. I wasn’t myself when I woke up.” Bobby rolled his eyes behind Jody’s back. “I just needed to get out, get some air. Think things over.”  
  
“And you came here?”  
  
“Ah,” Bobby cut in, “Deborah May and I--”  
  
“I was looking for Sam,” Dean interrupted. “We met kind of randomly a long time ago in town; turned out he was a friend of Mr. Singer’s and was staying here. It didn’t work out then, but… after what happened, I thought it was time to make some changes, so I headed out here and Bobby was kind enough to call him for me.”  
  
“We got some calls about a woman matching your description wandering down the highway this direction in a sheet. We’ve been checking the area systematically. Was there some reason you couldn’t call and let people know you were all right? The hospital had your belongings; you could have called a cab.”  
  
“It was a confusing time. I wasn’t thinking clearly, Sheriff Mills.”  
  
“But you’re thinking clearly now.” Jody’s tone conveyed a healthy amount of skepticism  
  
“Yeah, I am. I think we both know my life wasn’t all roses before. I feel… safer here.”  
  
“What about your kids?” the Sheriff asked.  
  
Dean crossed one shapely leg over the other. “I’m still working out a plan.”  
  
Jody raised a brow, eyes never leaving Dean’s face. “I thought Sam was your plan?”  
  
Dean’s pasted smile was back in place. “Still more things to think about. I just need some time.”  
  
“Uh huh.” Jody switched lines of questioning. “Do you remember the accident?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Any chance you would be willing to come with me back to the hospital and let them run some tests?”  
  
“I think I’ve been poked enough. They had me at their mercy for a month to run anything they wanted.”  
  
“You know that’s not what I’m talking about.”  
  
“I really think I’m good. I’m awake, I’m sane, I’m happy. What else are they going to tell me?”  
  
“You weren’t supposed to wake up,” she said bluntly. “Maybe they can find something in you that would help other people in your condition.”  
  
“Not without a pentagram and some salt,” Sam muttered. Dean coughed and elbowed him hard.  
  
“What was that?”  
  
“Nothing.” Dean smiled and Sam groaned inwardly, recognizing the expression. “Sam’s just worried about me seeing any doctors. It’s his religion; they don’t believe in modern medicine, you know?”  
  
Sheriff Mills gave Sam a look like he was an especially questionable something she’d found on her shoe. “Is that right.” It wasn’t a question. Sam ground his teeth, but forced himself to nod anyways.  
  
“Sheriff Mills,” Dean leaned in, features radiating sincerity, “I would really,  _really_  appreciate it if you didn’t tell anyone else where I am.”  
  
“Deborah--”  
  
“I need some peace, and I won’t have it if every bored local reporter starts banging on the door. And you know they will. Random accident victims aren’t news, but medical miracles are. I’m not ready to face people yet, and we both know that if word gets out I’ll either have to face them or run, and I don’t want to run. I’m tired, and confused, and just… really need a little time.”  
  
Jody’s expression softened a bit. “Half the county’s looking for you; I can’t just sit on the information indefinitely and let them waste all that manpower. We’ve got real crimes to solve, and you’ve got real friends and family who shouldn’t be left wondering where you’ve gone.”  
  
“I know, but… maybe a week? Can you give me that long?”  
  
“Please, Jody,” Bobby said quietly.  
  
Jody sighed. “One week. And at the end of it you go get yourself checked out by a professional, regardless of what bigfoot here thinks.” She glowered at Sam.  
  
“I will, I promise.  _Thank_  you.”  
  
“With that, I guess I’d better get back out there.” Jody drained the last of her coffee and handed Bobby the mug. “Thanks for the coffee and the conversation, Singer, it was… interesting as always.”  
  
“Let me walk you to your car.”  
  
The screen door banged gently closed behind them. When the footsteps had receded down the steps and their voices faded, Sam leaned back in his own chair. “A week, Dean?”  
  
Dean slumped back, looking pensive. “I didn’t think she would agree to much longer. I think we’ve only got whatever weird chemistry’s going on between her and Bobby to thank for this much of a reprieve.”  
  
“I thought the process was going to take  _weeks_ , plural. Wasn’t that what that fit you pitched about? I seem to remember not being able to breathe for part of it.”  
  
“I’ll make it work.”  
  
“And then what happens to--” Sam gestured to Dean’s body.  
  
“What do you think, Sam? She was a vegetable when I found her; she’ll be a vegetable when I leave her. It’s not a big deal; these medical miracles are notoriously hard to predict.”  
  
“Sheriff Mills is going to  _love_  that.”  
  
“Yeah, well, maybe I’ll go visit her at the station when I have my little moving day. That way she can see it with her own eyes and spare everyone the tedious questions.”  
  
“She’s not going to be real happy with Bobby either.”  
  
“What do you want from me, Sam?”  
  
“Nothing, just making an observation.”  
  
“Well, go observe something else. I’ve got more important things to worry about than Bobby’s love life.”

  
~~~~~

 

“She looks skinnier,” Bobby commented. He shoved a beer in Sam’s direction and sank onto the porch step with a gusty sigh. “Old bones aren’t what they used to be.”  
  
Sam twisted the bottle cap off with the edge of his shirt. “She is skinnier. What he’s doing is burning up the physical resources of his host as much as his own energies.”  
  
“It’s been almost three days; he’s gotta take a break sometime. Maybe eat something, rest.”  
  
Sam took a long pull of his beer. “I doubt he’s even feeling the drain anymore; he’s way down deep in his inner whatever. There's just a dull kind of hum when I brush against the link.”  
  
“Like a busy signal?”  
  
“More of a ‘get-lost’ signal. He’s in a pretty bad mood. I think. It’s not a real communication, just a feeling.”  
  
“Wonderful. Just as well I don’t have to listen to the bitching then.”  
  
The object of their discussion was sitting cross-legged in the wild field, bare feet tucked neatly under pale thighs, spine rigid and face set. A casual passerby would probably, not entirely inaccurately, assume she was meditating. Her tangled dark hair was loose and glinted with the fiery shades of sunset, decorated here and there with the odd bit of dried grass the wind had blown free. Sam did a walk around a few times a day, just to check on things. Dean’s skin had been reddening with sunburn after the first day, so Sam rubbed a little sunscreen on what was exposed, but otherwise left his brother alone.  
  
“He’s going to kill her if he doesn’t come up for air. You know that, right?” Bobby commented.  
  
Sam finished the beer and leaned back against the step, squinting against the late afternoon sun. “It is what it is, Bobby. Some of his energy is compensating for food and water, or she’d be in worse shape by now. Do you really want Dean here, trying to talk to the press when our little reprieve runs out in four days? If he doesn’t get this done before your friend the Sheriff starts talking, our best move will probably be for him to dump this host and find a new one to finish the repair process. Maybe one less uninhabited. I don’t know about you, but I like Dean to be  _Dean_ , and not wonder whose eyes he’s going to be looking out of when I turn around.”  
  
“Do you really?”  
  
“Really  _what_?” Sam asked.  
  
“Like Dean to be Dean. It’s not escaped me that there might be some advantages to, you know,  _this_ ,” Bobby motioned towards the field and its still figure with his bottle, “considering how things are between you guys and all.”  
  
Silence fell over the yard, but an easy one, broken only by the faint rustle of grasses and the occasional lonely bird call. After a few minutes, Sam stood up and stretched. “I think I’m going in, see what I can throw together for dinner. Any preferences?”  
  
“Cooked all the way through; no char. Go get it started while I walk out and make sure nothing’s nibbling on the new statuary.”

  
~~~~~

 

Sam finally gritted his teeth and decided to spend the next morning cleaning out the Impala’s trunk. There hadn’t been that much of a mess in the first place, and only the carpet the body had lain on seemed contaminated. He dragged everything out of the sub-compartment and checked individually just to make sure. Then Sam solved the clean-up problem by the simple expedient of cutting the carpet out of the trunk and tossing it in the rubbish pile to burn. It added a nice chemical enhanced shade to the otherwise crisp gold and orange flames as it melted down amidst the leaves and brush.  
  
“I thought you weren’t going to clean that,” Bobby commented, when Sam walked by him with a bottle of industrial cleaner and a bucket of soapy water.  
  
“I wasn’t, but every day the smell seeps in deeper and I don’t think standing on principle is worth putting up with the stench. I’m just going to wipe the bare metal down really well and call it a job. If Dean wants carpet back in the trunk, he can fix it himself.”  
  
“I’m not sure Dean’s really going to--” The sharp jingle of a ringtone cut him off and Bobby frowned and patted his pockets until he came up with his phone. “Hello?” He paced a few steps. “I can’t understand you, Jody. Repeat that? Jody? Hello?” He paced a few more feet, then pulled the phone away from his ear and dialed a number. He stuffed the phone back in his pocket a moment later with a shrug. “Crappy service.”  
  
“Who are you using?”  
  
“Hers, not mine. My service works fine; can’t afford to be walking around looking for bars when someone on the other end is screaming about yetis. But whatever the county is paying for isn’t worth the paper the contract’s printed on out here. They should have negotiated for a new tower or two. She’ll find a landline and call back in a few minutes.”  
  
“Did it sound important?”  
  
“It sounded like static and the occasional syllable, Sam. I caught Deborah’s name, but nothing else.”  
  
Sam cast an uneasy look towards his brother, stone still in the field. “We’ve got two days left; why would she--”  
  
“Maybe it was about that,” Bobby said with a grim nod towards the driveway.  
  
Sam spun to look. In the distance, a truck had turned off the highway and was kicking up dust as it bounced too fast along the gravel. Sam swore and headed over to intercept it, Bobby jogging beside him. Dean wasn’t visible from the main road, the driveway to the house, or even the front yard, where company usually parked; the burial site was mostly protected from casual view by the barn. But he could be seen from the porch, and if Sheriff Mills  _had_  been phoning in some kind of warning, then keeping their unexpected visitor from catching sight of Dean was priority number one.  
  
“Maybe burying him in the barn wasn’t such a bad idea,” Bobby muttered as they stopped in the driveway in front of the house, giving the unknown truck driver no choice but to stop or run them over.  
  
“Hindsight,” Sam agreed, as the wild-looking guy behind the wheel shoved open the driver’s side door and jumped out, almost vibrating with emotion.  
  
“Something I can help you with?” Bobby asked  
  
“Where’s my wife?” the guy demanded. “You’ve got my wife here and I want to see her, now!”  
  
Bobby and Sam exchanged sidelong looks. “Wife? Are you… Carl?”  
  
“Yeah, who the hell are you?” Conversation didn’t seem to be toning down his belligerence factor any.  
  
“I’m Singer; this is my junkyard you’re trespassing in,” Bobby said dryly with a thumb-jerk towards the sign. “I usually like visitors to call first. It’s a private sort of business. Appointment only.”  
  
“Fuck that. You’ve got  _my_  woman, and she should damn well be home with me! Deborah May!” Carl yelled, turning to face the house. “Deborah May, I know you’re in there! Get your skinny ass out here right now!”  
  
Bobby raked Carl with a scathing look. “I was under the impression you two weren’t hitched yet.”  
  
“What the hell does it matter to you?” Carl snarled. “The little bitch sticks me with her two brats while she lies around for a month, and then has the balls to shack up with some--” Carl paused in his rant, as if really seeing them for the first time and trying to come up with an appropriate slur.  
  
“Weird junkyard hobo?” Sam suggested politely. Bobby gave him an irritated look.  
  
“Yeah, that! And what the hell are you?”  
  
The voice that answered came unexpectedly from the long shadows of the house. “It’s  _who_ , Carl.  _Who_  the hell is he.  _What_  the hell is an entirely different kind of question. One you might not like the answer to.”  
  
Everyone in the junkyard turned toward the speaker. Dean, looking somewhat bedraggled and wind-burned after the better part of a week in the weather, walked rather gingerly onto the driveway until he’d reached Sam’s side. His eyes were a little sunken and the bones of his face more defined, but a few nights of hard drinking could have had much the same effect. Nothing about his appearance screamed  _other_  on the surface.  
  
“You bitch!”  
  
And  _oh_ , Dean was angry. Sam didn’t know if it was the interruption to his work, irritation in general at the situation, or just something about Carl personally, but he could feel it burning through Dean’s skin when he grabbed hold of his arm to keep him from getting any closer to their unwelcome guest. A deep, cold anger, so cold that Sam imagined he could almost see the flaring stars of entropy behind his eyes. The sun seemed almost to dim as the air’s bite turned suddenly bitter. Bobby shifted uneasily beside them, but Carl didn’t seem to notice anything.  
  
“Sticks and stones,” Dean replied in a deadly flat voice. “But I figure you know all about that. Isn’t that why you tried to kill me?”  
  
For the first time there was a hesitation in the rage that consumed Carl’s features. “What the hell are you talking about?”  
  
Dean wrenched his bicep out of Sam’s grip and crossed his arms. “My little  _accident_  and your dad’s old Honda. Smart to borrow a car from across state lines, but you screwed it up just like everything else in your life. You should have made sure I was dead.”  
  
Carl licked his lips. “Babe, I don’t know what you’re talking about. The accident… you’re all confused.”  
  
“I think you should leave. Now.” Bobby’s voice was as cool as the air.  
  
“Not without my wife,” Carl snarled.  
  
“We’re not married.”  
  
“Not yet,” Carl’s voice took on a wheedling edge, “but… these assholes, the accident… it’s screwing with your mind. You need to come home, with me and the kids, rest up some so your memory comes back. I didn’t mean to be so nasty, honey; I’m just scared. You’ve been so sick… just come on home so I can take care of you.”  
  
All three of them gazed at Carl with varying levels of irritation and disgust. After a moment, Dean snorted. “Did this kind of crap really work on her? No wonder she felt battered like a piñata.”  
  
Carl’s face flushed ruddily and his eyes darkened with fury. He didn’t seem to notice Dean’s odd use of pronouns, but stepped forward and reached out as if he was going to physically drag Deborah May away with him. Sam was angry too, but not furious enough to let Dean unleash the energy Sam could feel prickling just under the thin façade of Deborah May’s fragile skin. He wouldn’t cry if Carl was vaporized, but if people had known he was coming here… Too many complications. Sam stepped neatly out in front of Dean before Carl’s fingers could connect and slammed his closed fist into Carl’s jaw as hard as he could.  
  
Carl staggered back an impressive number of feet and fell like a stunned ox, blinking at the sky.  
  
Dean gave Sam a sidelong look and Sam could feel the building energy dissipate back into its source. Dean was still angry, but it was tempered now with amusement.  
  
“My hero.”  
  
“Shut up, Dean.” Sam flexed the fingers of his right hand gingerly. It’d been awhile since he’d punched someone like that and it didn’t do much to make him feel better. His own building temper couldn’t be voiced until their unwanted guest had been dealt with.  
  
“What the  _fuck_ ,” Carl slurred as he levered himself into a sitting position. Bobby, quite fed up with the entire situation, stalked over and hauled Carl to his feet by the shirt, stuffed the truck keys into his hand, then half walked, half dragged him back to the cab.  
  
“This is private property and you aren’t welcome,” Bobby said firmly. “You’ve said your piece and seen Deborah May. She doesn’t want to go home with you--”  
  
“She’s a lying bitch,” Carl snarled, staring at Dean with unbridled hatred. Dean stared back impassively.  
  
“--and if I see you here again, it might be the last place anyone sees you at all.” Bobby smiled, all teeth. “Understand?”  
  
“Are you threatening me, old man?”  
  
“Just so there won’t be any confusion later. Now get your ass off my property before I’ve got another mess to explain to the sheriff.” He stepped back in clear invitation for Carl to leave. Carl did, throwing the truck into reverse with a spray of gravel and enough torque to tear up the grass as he spun it around.  
  
“You haven’t heard the last of this, Deborah May,” he yelled out his window as he headed down the driveway. “You and me are gonna--” But whatever they were going to do was lost to distance.  
  
“Well, that was fun,” Dean said finally. Inside the house, the telephone started ringing.  
  
“That’s probably Jody,” Bobby sighed.  
  
“Why don’t you get her a new cell phone plan for Christmas,” Sam suggested, grabbing hold of Dean again when it looked like he was going to follow Bobby into the house. Dean looked at him questioningly, but Sam didn’t meet his eyes, focusing instead on Bobby, who was also watching the interaction while the phone continued to shrill.  
  
“Go on,” Sam said. “I just need to talk to Dean for a minute.”  
  
“Yell all you want, but no hitting,” Bobby said finally, after a long, assessing look. “You’re too big for me to carry your ass into bed anymore when he swats you like a fly.”  
  
Sam gave him a sharp smile in response and watched until Bobby was well inside the house, then released Dean as if he couldn’t stand to touch him anymore.  
  
“Sam, what the--”  
  
“You  _lied_  to me! I can’t believe-- you looked me straight in the eyes and you  _lied_!”  
  
“ _Sam_ \--” Dean tried to cut in again.  
  
“You told me she was dead!”  
  
“She  _is_  dead. I don’t know--”  
  
“You  _do_  know,” Sam hissed. “That’s the problem; you seem to know a  _lot_. You knew about the kids--”  
  
“I showed you the scar--” Dean snapped.  
  
“What about the accident, Dean? What about  _attempted murder_? You have a scar to show for that?”  
  
“Lots,” Dean growled. “Calm the fuck down, Sam; I didn’t lie to you.”  
  
There was betrayal in Sam’s eyes, and a towering anger. Dean swore and raked his hair back out of his face, yanking his fingers free with disgust when the tangling strands wouldn’t let go. “I didn’t lie,” Dean repeated. “I just… left out a few things.”  
  
“You  _told me_  that she was an empty host. That she was gone,  _really_  gone. There doesn’t seem to be a lot of room for confusion there, Dean.”  
  
“She  _is_  an empty host. She  _is_  gone. Only…” Dean hesitated, looking for the right word, “ish.”  
  
“ _Ish_? What do you mean ‘ish’.”  
  
“You know, empty-ish, gone-ish.”  
  
“So we’re back to the part where you flat out lied to me.”  
  
“She’s not here, Sam.”  
  
“Then  _how_ \--”  
  
Dean cut him off before he could get started again. “Not like she was, okay? There’s… traces. Flashes, chopped up memories. Mostly more recent stuff. It’s like being haunted from the inside. But she  _isn’t here_. The brain damage she had, it’s not the kind you can survive, you know? Little bits of who she was are still sparking, but the living, thinking woman didn’t make it. Deborah May Mason died on the side of that road; there’s nothing left of her in here but echoes.”  
  
“So she’s… in heaven? Or wherever?”  
  
Dean shrugged noncommittally. Sam scowled.  
  
“What do you want me to say, Sam? Death is complicated. I’m not beating down a living mind to hold this body, but if whatever tattered remnants of the previous occupant are still swirling around want to share the rent, hey, I’m an open minded kind of guy.”  
  
“That doesn’t sound like she’s dead, Dean.”  
  
“It does to me,” Dean replied, holding Sam’s gaze evenly. They stared at each other, both angry and unwilling to back down, until the screen door banged open and Bobby called them to come in.

  
~~~~~

 

“So our little uninvited guest  _was_  why Jody was calling.”  
  
“I thought she was going to keep her trap shut until the end of the week?” Dean asked from where he was buried in the pantry.  
  
Bobby’s eyes narrowed at Dean’s tone. “ _She_  did; her partner didn’t.”  
  
“Her partner? As in another human she wasn’t supposed to be telling in the first place?” Dean demanded, emerging with a box of crackers and the peanut butter.  
  
“Her partner thinks I’m involved in half the unsolved crimes around this county, and knows Jody and I have a, uh, relationship of sorts.” Dean snorted. Bobby glared at him. “And she had to tell him the truth so he wouldn’t just think it was bias when she said she’d cleared my property, and decide to go poking around on his own. He’s a good guy; she didn’t think it would be a problem.”  
  
“So how does this lead us to the homicidal psycho you just ran off?”  
  
Bobby sighed. “Well, turns out Keith and Carl used to wrestle together back in high school, and Keith didn’t want Carl all worried about his fiancée if she was okay… Jody doesn’t think Keith knew Carl was beating her up.”  
  
“Remind me to send Keith a gift of some sort. Like rattlers, or water moccasins.”  
  
“What’s done is done,” Bobby said firmly. “Jody’s sorry about the trouble. Keith won’t tell his priest after Jody gets done with him, and Carl--”  
  
“Carl’s not going to tell anyone,” Dean said derisively. He polished off the last of the crackers and gave the box a wounded look.  
  
Bobby’s expression turned grim. “Were you serious about what you accused him of earlier, or were you just trying to rattle his cage?”  
  
“What do you think?” Dean asked. He screwed the lid back on the peanut butter and licked the knife.  
  
“I think as far as the county is concerned, she was a tragic victim of a hit and run. But it doesn’t seem to have been much of a secret to most people that he was an abusive creep. If there’s any evidence out there, Jody would be more than happy to throw his ass in jail for awhile.”  
  
Dean crouched to dig through a cabinet. “The only evidence I can think of might be on that car, and with a month’s head start? You know how easy it is to make those things disappear. Lotta lakes around here.”  
  
“How  _did_  you know about it anyways?” Bobby asked, suspicion coloring the edges of his tone.  
  
“Random flashes, bits and pieces of what happened to her before she died. Though if you ask Sam, I’m a mind-raping monster taking advantage of another helpless innocent to further my own twisted goals. Or something. I’m paraphrasing a little. Do you have any cereal?”  
  
Bobby’s eyes flickered over Sam’s stony expression and the barely veiled hostility of his body language. “Uh huh. Check the next cabinet.”  
  
“What about her kids?” Sam asked, speaking up for the first time in the conversation.  
  
Dean found a box of frosted flakes and carried it back to his seat. “I don’t know, Sam. What  _about_  her kids?”  
  
“We can’t just leave them with Carl. You think he tries to kill their mother and then becomes father of the year?”  
  
“So… what? You think we should adopt? You, me, and a couple of rugrats bouncing along in the backseat? Hey, maybe  _they_  can help bury me next time. Kids love digging.”  
  
Sam glared. “I’m just saying we owe her more than to--”  
  
“We don’t  _owe_  her anything, Sam! You don’t know her; she was dead a month before you even heard her nam--”  
  
“Ish,” Sam interrupted.  
  
“What?”  
  
“Like you said, Dean. Dead-ish.”  
  
Dean set the box down with more force than was necessary, the flare of his nostrils showed just how much restraint he was exercising to keep his voice even. “What do you think we can do about it, Sam? Kidnapping? The court system?  _Really_? Sheriff Mills is going to watch those kids like a hawk after this; one unexplained bruise and she’ll make Carl’s life a living hell. Well, more of one than it is. We have much, much bigger fish to fry.”  
  
Sam leaned back in his chair, moody but no longer bristling every time he glanced at Dean. Not on the outside anyways. Inside, Dean wasn’t exactly sure what was going on, but in the mood Sam was in, he would probably pick up on any attempt to cheat. Whatever the hell was going on in his head, Sam would just have to work through himself.  
  
“How much longer do you need for your body?” Bobby asked, when the silence had grown oppressive.  
  
“About a day, maybe. I’m cutting some corners, not worrying so much about things I can fix on the go. I would have been done  _days ago_  but--”  
  
“Are you heading back out there now?” Bobby interrupted, not interested in hearing Dean’s rant about the freezer again.  
  
“Just as soon as I eat my weight in whatever you’ve got in the fridge.”

  
~~~~~

 

Midnight came and went. Sam lay in the twin bed alone, drifting in and out of dreams and nightmares. They didn’t carry the stamp of his gift or the whisper of voices from above and below, but they were unsettling just the same. Dreams of hammering hopelessly on imprisoning glass while around him, the world turned on, oblivious. Of strangers with familiar eyes, his own hands bloody with an innocent life, and a dark-haired woman who rocked mindlessly, trapped in a cage of thorns. It seemed to Sam that he had barely closed his eyes before he was blinking awake again, with scant minutes passed on the clock.  
  
The nightmares weren’t hard to decipher; a tangled hodgepodge of his experiences at the hands of the demon Meg more than a decade in the past, and his fears about Dean’s latest host. Sam had no recollection of his own experience hosting Dean, and the only other host Dean had taken during their travels together just hadn’t bothered Sam the way Deborah May did.  
  
Maybe it was because there had been no deception, no clouding of the issue in that instance; Sam had known  _every single minute_  that it was wrong. He had never looked at Dean in the stranger’s body and felt anything but revulsion and unease for what was basically spiritual rape-- Dean’s assurances that the guy wouldn’t remember anything later hardly reassuring against the magnitude of the crime.  
  
This time was different. This time he’d relaxed. He’d enjoyed the change of pace, enjoyed  _her_. Dean had promised the vessel was empty, and Sam hadn’t even blinked, just gone along as if it was something as simple as Dean trying on new clothes. And all along,  _all along_ , there had been another person inside. Another  _victim_. She’d been trapped, like  _he’d_  been trapped once, and Sam hadn’t even known to care. Even if Dean made her sleep like he had the one before, it didn’t make it okay. Some things could  _never_ just be okay.  
  
Sam closed his eyes, trying to sleep again. He felt Meg’s hands, her sharp nails biting into his skin as her hand fastened like a band around his wrist, sinking into his pores; her voice, whispering from the inside… A leg slid over Sam’s waist and startled him from sleep, but the hand pressed firmly over his mouth caused him to bite back the cry that tried to instinctively escape. The only light in the room came from the crescent moon outside, filtered through the blinds. In the darkness, Sam could barely make out Deborah May’s long, dark hair, framing the pale oval of her face in shadow and the dark, cavernous holes of her eyes.  
  
Sam tried to free a hand, intending to fumble the nightstand lamp on, but Dean had managed to pin both of his arms to his sides when he’d climbed on top. He gave a bone-crushing squeeze of warning when Sam tried to toss him off.  
  
But at least he moved his hand.  
  
“Stop that,” Dean hissed.  
  
“Get off!” Sam hissed back.  
  
“No. Shut up and lay still,” Dean whispered. “We’re going to have a little chat, and if you’re very good and keep the struggling and shouting to a minimum, we won’t have Bobby in here with us by the time we’re done.”  
  
“I mean it Dean.  _Off_.” Sam wiggled more determinedly, gasping when Dean dug his knees in again.  
  
“I didn’t take you for a threesome kind of guy, Sam. Learn something every day, I suppose.”  
  
Sam ceased struggling and glared. “Why are we whispering?”  
  
Dean grinned, a flash of white teeth. “I just snuck into your bedroom in the middle of the night; it seemed like the thing to do.”  
  
“What do you want?” Sam demanded in a more normal voice.  
  
“I want to show you something.”  
  
“I think I’ve seen everything you’ve got.”  
  
“That was mean, Sam. You’re gonna hurt poor Deborah May’s feelings if you keep that up.”  
  
Sam’s eyes widened, but Dean cut off his outrage by clamping a hand across his mouth again. “No, you got to yell earlier. I get to talk now. Unless you really  _do_  want to wake up Bobby. I don’t know about you, Sam, but Singer looks like he can use all the beauty rest he can get to me.”  
  
“You told me she was  _gone_!” Sam hissed once he was released.  
  
“She  _is_ \-- Oh, I’m not having this fight again. You’re going to chill out, we’re going to do things  _my_  way, and then you can bitch at me all you like. Got it?”  
  
“Get your knee out of my kidney.”  
  
“What, do you bruise easily now? I’ll move my knee when you agree.”  
  
“Fine.”  
  
“Fantastic. Your enthusiasm is touching.” Dean relaxed until Sam could barely feel the press of sharp knees anymore. He cautiously pulled his hands free too, shaking feeling back into them when Dean didn’t object.  
  
“Now what?” Sam asked.  
  
“Now…” Dean leaned down until the dark curtain of his hair fell over them both, surrounding Sam with the sweet scent of dried grasses and fresh earth. He felt a tugging in the back of his mind, in that place he thought of as Dean’s. Where the silvery cord of the curse twisted with entropy and bound them together. It was a place that had been unusually quiet lately, a dull hum of  _other_  that was almost exactly as Sam remembered it from the early days, back when Ruby had held his leash and he had little else to occupy his time but resentment and grief. Now Dean was tapping at the proverbial door, asking permission for an access that had almost been taken for granted in the last year. Sam was tempted to refuse out of sheer irritation, but it was late and he was tired. It was obvious Dean wasn’t going to go away just out of wishing.  
  
“What are you doing?” Sam asked, surprised when the sense of  _Dean_  stayed static even after he had dropped what little shielding he could control.  
  
“You need to kind of, um, push this way? Try to follow it across towards me.”  
  
“I’ve been there before,” Sam said warily. “A couple of times. I’m not in a big hurry to experience it again.”  
  
Dean straightened up and shook his hair back over his shoulders. Sam could feel his annoyance like it was being broadcasted. “That was when everything was crumbling and open; it’s not like that now. More’s the pity,” Dean added under his breath. “Look, just do it. You can always back out.”  
  
“Why would I possibly want to do this, again?”  
  
“Well, I don’t know, Sam. I guess you’ll just have to try it and find out.”  
  
They glared at each other in the dark for a minute, then Sam muttered something uncomplimentary under his breath and closed his eyes, concentrating on chasing that twisting tendril through the snags and snarls of his own inner space. Sam had no real awareness of when that space was no longer his own and he’d entered shared territory. One moment he was firmly within his own mind, and the next there were pinpricks of light, like stars in the reaches of space. He drifted close to one and it engulfed him, wrapping him in the heartbeat of another person’s life.  
  
Wooden floors, rough and grimy with lack of care. They scraped splinters into the palms he used to break his fall. It felt like all his ribs on his right side were cracked and fire lanced around like a crushing fist with every shallow breath he drew. Movement from the corner of his eye showed approaching boots. His shoulders tensed, anticipating the next blow.  
  
Darkness again. Another star. Another flare that swallowed his senses. Warm water, heavy with suds that clung to his wrists as he washed. Out in the yard, a children’s swing set was rusting by a narrow stream.  
  
More darkness, more pinpricks of light, enveloping him when he drifted close. Another, and another. Colliding together, some too fast to catch more than a fragment of song, a hint of color. He fell through them for minutes or hours in an endless stretch of infinite space, and then finally it was dusk. A cool breeze cut through the last hint of summer warmth. A car was approaching, headlights cutting through the evening gloom. Tall weeds at the side of the highway scraped against bare skin as he shuffled through the mail, sorting out the bills while he walked back to the driveway. A squeal of tires and the car left pavement, tearing into the grass of the shoulder and barreling down on him. He froze for an instant, transfixed as fast by headlights as any deer, one heartbeat to squint against the glare and recognize both car and driver and then… nothing.  
  
Sam’s eyes flew open, and it was still dark. But this darkness held no vastness of mystery; the tiny bedroom was almost as familiar to him as the interior of the Impala. Dean hadn’t moved aside, but now he was curled over, face pressed into Sam’s shoulder.  
  
Sam blew a strand of Deborah May’s dark hair off his own face and had to swallow twice before he trusted his voice. “How long?”  
  
After a moment, he felt Dean’s head turn to glance at the bedside clock. “A few minutes.”  
  
“It felt like days. Just… all those pieces.”  
  
“That’s all there is now. Little fragments, random flashes.”  
  
“She’s really gone then.”  
  
“I told you.”  
  
“Yeah, you did.”  
  
Dean sat up straight. “Then why, if we’re both in agreement that the chick is toast, do you still sound all moody and distressed?”  
  
Sam fumbled the lamp on and glanced at Dean; grateful on some level not to feel that pull of attraction anymore. He was still drawn to  _Dean_ , but that little spark of extra something wasn’t even a blip on the horizon. Now when he looked at Deborah May, all he felt was tired. And sad. She’d lived a short, unhappy life and died a pointless, violent death.  
  
Sam didn’t know how to answer Dean's question. Dean was so  _Dean_  most of the time that dealing with the places he was  _other_  could be hard. Sometimes there seemed to be no gap between what remembered being human, and the parts of his brother that were anything but. Other times it was like this, where he seemed so oblivious or callous to obvious tragedy that Sam just wanted to haul off and hit him.  
  
“The whole situation,” Sam finally said with a shrug. “It’s just all…”  
  
“Stupid,” Dean filled in helpfully. Sam pushed at his hip and Dean obliged him by sliding off to the side of the bed.  
  
“Yeah.” Close enough.  
  
“So, we good then?”  
  
Sam closed his eyes and relaxed against the mattress under his back. “We’re fine, Dean.”  
  
“Still not happy?”  
  
Sam cracked one eyelid. “Was there a great chance I would be?”  
  
“What’s the problem  _now_?” Dean asked, exasperated. “She’s dead, just like I promised. No one’s being tortured in the depths of their own mind; I wasn’t lying to you about one of your  _many_  angsty hang-ups--”  
  
“She was murdered, Dean. No one knows it but us, and her kids are still living with her killer.”  
  
“There’s a lot of injustice in the world, Sam. You want me to just pop by there and tear his head off for you?”  
  
“ _No_.” Sam glared.  
  
“Then what? Sheriff Jody seems pretty reasonable, all things considered, but the truth goes a little beyond _reasonable_.”  
  
“She thinks you’re Deborah May; maybe you could just--”  
  
“What?  _Remember_  getting run down by my fiancé? There’s not any evidence but my say so, and I’m the party recovering from a severe head wound. Plus, even if we could convince someone to press charges, we’re not really in a position to hang around a few months or years for a  _trial_ , Sam! I don’t have a tape recording of her life in my head; I’ve got some crumbly pieces. The holes are going to start showing if someone starts  _really_  asking questions.”  
  
“I wasn’t…” Sam’s voice trailed off for a moment. “I’m not seriously suggesting that. It just seems like there should be  _something_  we can do to help her. Or at least her family.”  
  
“And we’re back to the part where I rip his head off his shoulders.”  
  
“No. We’re not going to kill him. I mean it, Dean. There has to be another way.” It wasn’t even so much that Sam was against Carl’s death, but he couldn’t handle the thought of Dean standing over the corpse with blood on his hands and not a trace of reaction in his eyes. Just a murder, no big deal. Letting Dean play executioner crossed a line Sam struggled to keep intact, a line that let him define the boundaries of their shared world with limits he could live with. If he started making exceptions, he would wake up one morning and not even recognize himself. He could see that future as clearly as he could see his own reflection. And if it happened, it would be for a greater cause than this.  
  
Not for Carl.  
  
“Then what?” Dean asked simply.  
  
“I don’t know. But I’ll think of something that doesn’t involve possibly getting Bobby tangled up in a mysterious murder. He has to live here; we don’t. Speaking of which, how’s the repair work going?”  
  
“How would  _Bobby_  be involved?”  
  
“Jody knows Carl was over here causing problems. She knows you’re here, and she knows weird things happen around Bobby. You don’t think if he suddenly dies, or even just vanishes, that she’s not going to have some hard looks and questions?”  
  
Dean shrugged. “Sounds like Bobby’s problem to me.”  
  
Sam rolled his eyes. “Like I said, I’ll think of something. Repair work?”  
  
“It’s fine. I’ll be ready in the next day or so.”  
  
“I’ll think fast then.”  
  
“Of a solution that punishes Carl for killing Deborah May, puts her kids out of his reach, doesn’t endanger the questionable love-life of anyone we know,  _and_  doesn’t offend your delicate moral sensibilities? Can such a miracle be possible?” Dean asked, mocking tone grinding Sam’s nerves in a way that only Dean ever seemed able to manage.  
  
“It seems to be the season for them,” Sam retorted. “Aren’t we about to have a resurrection out in the yard?”  
  
Dean snorted and slid off the bed.  
  
“You want to stay?” Sam asked hesitantly. “Just to sleep?”  
  
Dean paused with the door half open, a faint outline against the deeper expanse of the hallway. Sam could feel his weighing look. “You don’t really want me to.”  
  
“I don’t  _not_  want you to--”  
  
“Chill, Sam. Don’t hurt yourself squirming. I’ve got work to do anyways.”

  
~~~~~

 

Sam’s dreams were easier after Dean left. He slept deeply until sunlight beaming through the blinds roused him mid-morning. He thought about the Carl problem while he sat and yawned on the edge of the bed, through a leisurely shower, and as he headed down the stairs to dig up something for breakfast.  
  
Dean had polished off all the cereal during his binge the previous day, so Sam made do with canned vegetable soup for breakfast. He was washing his bowl when a casual glance out the kitchen window made him pause.  
  
Dean was gone.  
  
The low mound of earth over the grave still looked intact, and there was nothing else out of place either in the yard or the house that Sam noticed, but Dean was definitely not in his usual spot in the field. It was an unexpected development, but not immediately alarming. Bobby was gone too, and the truck. Most likely Bobby had dragged him off on same errand.  
  
It was a little odd though; Dean still had work to do and time away from that was time running down on a very short clock. Plus, Deborah May could only attract attention in town, and any attention was bad attention. There wasn’t much point in bringing someone along on errands who would have to hide if they went anywhere populated… Sam reached out tentatively, but Dean ignored him.  
  
Well, Sam  _had_  asked for space. It wasn’t really fair to expect it to run only one way.  
  
He was just patting his pockets for a cell phone when Bobby’s old truck turned down the long gravel drive. Relieved, Sam headed out to meet it. His relief turned to deeper concern when only Bobby climbed out.  
  
“Where’s Dean?” Sam asked.  
  
Bobby frowned. “He’s not back yet?”  
  
“Back from  _where_? He’s supposed to be finishing up today. I thought he was with you!”  
  
“Nope.” Bobby swung a sack of groceries out of the back and handed it to Sam. “He came inside when I was making coffee this morning. Said he needed to stretch his legs out and was going for a walk.”  
  
“And you just  _let him_?”  
  
“And how exactly was I going to stop him?” Bobby demanded as he stomped up the steps with his own bag. Sam trailed him into the kitchen. “Tackling demons isn’t a way to extend one’s life expectancy, and I didn’t have a pentagram handy. I reminded him to stay out of sight and went off on my own errands. Keeping your brother on a leash isn’t in my job description.”  
  
“He just went for a walk?”  
  
“Yeah.” Bobby glanced at the wall clock. “About three hours ago.”  
  
Sam closed his eyes and reached out. More forcefully this time. Space was one thing; mysterious unexplained disappearances were something else. Dean reacted this time, but only to rebuff Sam’s touch. His concentration was obviously elsewhere. Sam projected his irritation, not impressed with Dean’s preoccupation or the faint hint of smugness radiating between them. Dean blew him off again and then withdrew. Sam opened his eyes and scowled.  
  
“Should I ask?”  
  
Sam met Bobby’s eyes across the room and shrugged. “He’s okay, I think; just focusing on something.”  
  
“Like what he’s been doing all week?”  
  
“No,” Sam said slowly, thinking about that brief contact again. “Almost like he’s… I don’t know, waiting for something. Anticipating it.”  
  
“Waiting,” Bobby mused “Like on a hunt?”  
  
“Exactly like that,” Sam agreed grimly.  
  
“What the hell is your brother,  _the demon_ , stalking out here in the middle of nowhere?” Bobby demanded.  
  
“Like you said, it’s been three hours. He’s probably not  _in_  the middle of nowhere anymore.”  
  
Bobby’s eyes widened. “You don’t think--”  
  
Sam swore. “I told him not to do this. I’ve gotta go, Bobby.” Sam shoved his feet into his boots and grabbed his jacket off the hook. The gun he’d left in the pocket was a reassuring weight.  
  
“Gimme a sec--” Bobby began.  
  
Sam cut him off. “No. You can’t come. If he’s doing what I think he’s doing, you can’t be anywhere near there. In fact, why don’t you go visit Sheriff Mills and have a nice, long, conspicuous conversation that gives you a solid alibi for whatever mess Dean’s about to create?”  
  
“Sam--”  
  
“Dean’s the problem, Bobby, and there’s nothing you can do to help me handle him. I’ve just got to go try and head him off before-- I don’t even know what the hell he’s got planned.” Sam grabbed the Impala’s keys off the counter.  
  
“Do you know where he is?”  
  
“If he’s waiting for Carl, it’s probably at his house. Deborah May’s house.” Images flickered through his mind. The yard, the swing set, the stream, the road in front and the long, grassy expanse of the bank that led to a rambling country driveway. Sam was almost certain he would recognize the place if he could get close enough-- something, something… Sheriff Mill’s voice echoed his memory. “Do you know where Blaylock Road is?”

  
~~~~~

 

Bobby did know where Blaylock Road was. His hand-drawn map was easy to read, letting Sam spend most of his concentration on trying to force a better link on Dean while Dean did the equivalent of putting his hands over his ears and humming. It wasn’t doing anything to improve Sam’s mood. He and Dean’s _understanding_  about casual murder had been one of the very first things they’d agreed on when forging their unorthodox partnership.  
  
Right after the handcuffs had come off.  
  
Finding the house was more difficult than finding the road had been, but like he had expected, once he saw the place, Sam just  _knew_. He drove the same stretch of road Deborah May had died along until he could see Carl’s truck parked in front of a low, rambling single-story house. Dean was there too, Sam had no doubt about that. He could feel the demon from half a mile away.  
  
Sam parked in the grass behind a ramshackle shed to keep the Impala out of sight and crept closer to the house, trying to stay out of the direct line of any window. Sam could only be grateful it was mid-morning on a Thursday and the kids were safely in school.  
  
He hoped they were, that Dean had enough decency to not pull whatever the hell he was up to with the kids in the house.  
  
And whatever he  _was_  up to was loud enough that Sam could hear raised voices ten feet from the door. The words were indistinct, but Carl’s booming voice was coming from deeper inside the house than the front rooms, so Sam cautiously opened the unlocked door and entered.  
  
The foyer and living area were a cluttered mess; beer cans and discarded clothing littered the furniture and any flat surfaces, and the distinct odor of cat pee perfumed the air. A pair of roller skates and some scattered building blocks near the doorway were an easily-avoided hazard as Sam moved slowly through the home, Carl’s voice growing louder but still almost as incoherent. It seemed to be mostly an uncomplimentary slur of aspersions against Deborah May’s character, and suggestions on how he would do a better job getting rid of her this time. Carl’s only talent Sam had seen any sign of seemed to be in vulgarities and ugly threats. He tucked himself in tight against the wall and used a mirror in the hallway to get a look into the situation in the kitchen.  
  
It was not encouraging.  
  
Carl’s back was to the hall. His sweat-stained t-shirt and jeans had seen better days, but most of Sam’s attention was drawn to the sawed-off he had gripped in his right hand. Carl gesticulated with it wildly to punctuate his rant, but refrained from actually pointing it at the woman facing him. For the moment.  
  
Dean, for his part, must have raided Bobby’s stash of Karen’s old clothing, because the white sandals and delicate blue sundress had absolutely not been part of the thrift store collection. It wasn’t particularly seasonal either, but it suited Deborah May well. Dean had even brushed out her long, dark hair, and it gleamed a warm chestnut where sunlight filtering through the kitchen windows touched it. Sam thought she looked lovely, and very, very vulnerable in the face of the madman waving his gun and practically foaming at the mouth. He started to step forward, intending to grab Carl and wrestle the gun away, but Sam hadn’t even managed the first step before Dean was  _there_  in his mind, and the force of his warning to _stay out of it_  was strong enough to make Sam stagger.  
  
Sam was internally debating if he should see how things played out, or ignore Dean and go for the gun anyway, when Dean broke up Carl’s rant by the simple expedient of holding a cell phone up for Carl to see.  
  
“What the hell is  _that_?!” Carl demanded, almost breathless after his tirade.  
  
“You know what it is. I just wanted to try and patch up our relationship. For the kid’s sake. I thought we could be together again. I missed you.” Dean gave a half sob. Sam didn’t find it very convincing, but imagined it would play well to whoever was on the other end of the line. “But what you said… that was you, that night? With the car? Why would you do that to me, Carl? Why?”  
  
“What the fuck are you doing, Deborah May?” Carl asked anxiously, voice tightening nervously.  
  
“When you started talking about killing me, about how you  _should have backed up and hit me again_ , I called 911. The operator’s recorded it, Carl. It’s all on tape now. What you did to me, what you want to do to me… You'll never get your hands on the money! Even if you kill me now, people will know what you've done!” Dean took a couple of steps forward.  
  
“You bitch! I  _should_  have fucking hit you again!” Carl snarled. He raised the shotgun. It was so close now that the end of the barrel almost brushed the front of Dean’s dress. Sam tensed, but feared the moment for intervention had passed. Carl’s finger was white on the trigger, and Sam didn’t know if making his presence known would defuse the moment or send them all over the cliff.  
  
In the mirror, Dean caught his eye. And winked.  
  
“It’s over, Carl! The cops heard everything!” Dean yelled as he stepped forward again, almost menacingly. Carl, as nervous as he was enraged, backed up a half step, but the shotgun was now pressed into Dean’s skin through the thin fabric of the dress. Into Deborah May’s skin. “You know what they do in prison to abusive cowards like you? You’re going to--” but whatever it was Dean was predicting Carl was going to do was lost in the thunderous boom of a shotgun being fired at close range. Carl looked as shocked as Sam felt. The gun fell from his nerveless hands and hit the floor beside Deborah May’s crumpled body. Her dark eyes were wide and empty, whatever spirit that had inhabited her fled. The spreading scarlet pool of her blood soaked into Carl’s jeans as he fell to his knees beside her lifeless flesh. He touched her shoulder tentatively, shaking it a little.  
  
“Deborah May?” He shook her a little harder. “Honey?” Her shining hair slid limply off her shoulder into the blood, and suddenly Sam knew what the fancy dress-up had been about. The crime scene photos would be damning, one more twist of the knife at trial.  
  
The cell phone had fallen several feet away, close to Sam’s feet. In the deafening silence, he could hear a frantic, distant voice demanding to know if she was okay.  
  
There was nothing else Sam could do, not for Deborah May, and sure as hell not for Carl. He made his way hastily back to the Impala, and was vanishing around the bend just as the first flashing light appeared over the hill.  
  
He didn’t reach for Dean on the way home, just let the easy rhythm of the back-country roads calm his nerves and wished for a simpler life.

  
~~~~~

 

Dean was waiting for him on Bobby’s steps. His hair was still damp from a hasty shower to rinse off the dirt and whatever else remained from his time underground and hasty resurrection. The only visual reminders of the circus of the past few weeks were the shadows under his eyes and a strange mottled tone to his skin, like fading bruises or early decay. But Dean’s eyes were clear, the green as sharp and bright as Sam had ever seen it. Alive or dead.  
  
“That was your solution?” Sam demanded as he slid out from the driver’s side of the Impala. Dean held up his hand and Sam tossed him the keys.  
  
“It solved all our problems,” Dean shrugged. “Unless the cops are frighteningly incompetent, Carl’s going to jail for a few decades-- on the murder charge the jackass deserved in the first place no less. Deborah May’s kids might not end up in the wonderland they deserve, but just about anything beats Carl’s tender care, and I think Sheriff Jody will try and keep an eye out for them. Bobby should be off the hook for anything involving the murder, and no one’s going to care she was hanging out here before it happened. You don’t even get to angst about her family wondering where she went-- she’s dead. She’s  _been_  dead, and now everyone will know it. They can get her a headstone and move on with their lives. I would have brought you in on it,” Dean added, “but I figured we’d be arguing about it until the press showed up and there didn’t seem to be a lot to argue about.”  
  
Sam sat on the steps next to him. “It would have killed you to discuss it a  _little_? I almost had a panic attack when I woke up and you were gone  _again_!”  
  
“Admit it,” Dean said with a grating edge of smugness, “you’re just jealous you didn’t think of it first.”  
  
“It was certainly...” Sam looked for the right word and finally settled on, “unconventional.”  
  
“That’s another word for ‘awesome,’ right?”  
  
“I don’t think getting a woman gunned down in her own kitchen is  _awesome_ , Dean.”  
  
“I practically put a bow on this, I tied it up so neat!”  
  
“You look like hell,” Sam changed the subject, unwilling to admit to a tiny bit of admiration for the elegant simplicity of Dean’s solution. He hadn’t really killed anyone, justice had been delivered, and all the loose ends seemed accounted for. It was brutally efficient, didn’t cross any of Sam’s lines, and achieved all of their goals. He would have come up with it himself if he’d been able to view Deborah May’s questionable state of existence as prosaically as Dean had.  
  
Dean held out one hand and examined it. “Detail work. I’ll clear it up over the next day or so. Everything’s mostly fine, just some surface work on circulation, a few other things. Still fighting that little Order problem, but it’s almost cleared up.”  
  
“Sorry about that.”  
  
“I was starting to think you’d forgotten those words.”  
  
Sam gave him an irritated look. “They don’t seem to be tripping off your tongue either.”  
  
“What am I supposed to be apologizing for again?”  
  
“Just tell me that wasn’t your cell phone you called 911 with.”  
  
Dean snorted. “What part of this masterfully executed plan says that I’m completely stupid?”  
  
“Well it wasn’t  _her_  phone; you didn’t get any of her things from the hospital.”  
  
“It was Carl’s. He was home when I got there, drunk off his ass and snoring in the living room, so I scouted around. It wouldn’t have mattered if he was wide awake, though; I can be stealthy as hell when I want to be.” Sam knew that was certainly true. “I found the shotgun in the laundry room and left it on the kitchen table for convenience, then picked his pocket for the cell. When I was ready, I started yelling at him and…. You pretty much saw the rest.”  
  
“You couldn’t be sure you could get him to shoot you.”  
  
Dean’s smile had edges of ice. “Carl was going to shoot Deborah May today if I had to pull the trigger myself. And I really don’t want to hear any of your bullshit about it. As it happened, he was more than happy to do the deed without my interference. There’s a nice confession on tape, the gruesome murder of a woman who just miraculously fought her way back from the brink of death, her pretty corpse, two orphans, and a drunk, abusive jackass with his prints all over the weapon and trigger. If he doesn’t go to prison, it won’t be because we didn’t try.”  
  
“I’m not arguing with you, Dean.”  
  
“Well… good.” Dean sounded suspicious at his good fortune, but was more than happy to change the topic. “Did you clean out my trunk?”  
  
“Kind of,” Sam said vaguely.  
  
Dean’s eyes narrowed. “What does ‘kind of’ mean?”  
  
Sam stood up and brushed gravel dust off his jeans. “I got rid of the smell.”  
  
“With a steam cleaner and some good elbow grease?”  
  
“I don’t remember you making any demands on the ‘how’ part last time we discussed it.”  
  
“What did you do to my car, Sam?” Dean demanded.  
  
Sam fished his cell phone out of his pocket. “Why don’t you go find out while I call Bobby,” he suggested. “Unless you want to do the honors?”  
  
Dean gave him a dark look but beat a hasty retreat.  
  
Sam didn’t really want to be immediately available after Dean inspected the Impala, so he took his phone up to the bedroom to make his call to Bobby.  
  
“I found Dean at Carl’s place--”  
  
“Did he do this on purpose?” Bobby demanded to know.  
  
“I take it you heard the news.”  
  
“I was sitting in Jody’s office when the call came in. You’ll be thrilled to know how much she’s  _dying_  to talk to you,” Bobby snapped.  
  
“Are you still with her?”  
  
“No. She’s at the scene. I’m almost back to the house.”  
  
“It’s for the best, Bobby. For everyone.”  
  
Bobby didn’t say anything for a minute and Sam could hear a long exhale of breath.  
  
“Yeah,” he finally said, sounding as tired as Sam felt. “I know. How’s Dean? Above ground?”  
  
“He was waiting for me when I got home.”  
  
“Just tell me no one saw you or that damn neon light of a car you guys drive.”  
  
“No one, not even Carl.”  
  
“Good. If you’re away clean, then we can all just claim she was missing when we woke up. She’s got a habit of taking long walks in the woods, and we didn’t know anything was wrong until Jody got the call.”  
  
“When do you think Jody will be by?”  
  
“Not until tomorrow, I’d imagine. She’s got her hands full with this, plus some kind of bus accident on the other side of the county. Unless you think you can work up some tears and want to spend an hour undergoing the third degree, I suggest that you and that undead menace be out of town before then.”  
  
“Is that going to cause you problems?”  
  
“It might take some time to sooth her temper, but as long as the case is open and shut and you’ve managed not to implicate yourself in anything, I think I’ll manage.”

  
~~~~~

 

When Sam headed downstairs, Bobby was just walking in, escorted by Dean, who was complaining about the various, mostly imaginary, abuses his car had suffered.  
  
“I didn’t  _maim_  the Impala,” Sam defended himself as he walked into the kitchen.  
  
“I said  _clean_  the car, not  _mutilate_  her!”  
  
“I cut out the carpet! It was old, it was smelly, it was bleached out in places from the time you decided hauling goblin carcasses in the trunk was an okay thing to do. What do you want from me?”  
  
“It’s wasn’t  _old_ , it was  _classic_.”  
  
“Carpet doesn’t get classic, Dean, it gets replaced.”  
  
“Well sure, it does  _now_.”  
  
“Haven’t you people darkened my doorstep long enough?” Bobby demanded.  
  
“It’s like you don’t love us anymore, Bobby.”  
  
“I ran your daddy off with a shotgun more than once, Dean. Don’t make me get it back out.”  
  
Sam plugged his cell phone into the charger on the counter. “I thought we’d leave after dinner, if you can put up with us that long. Help you eat that mystery casserole.”  
  
“Were you going to discuss that with me?” Dean asked.  
  
“Leaving, or the casserole?”  
  
Bobby rolled his eyes. He started to say something, but was cut off when the kitchen door swung in with enough force to dent the wall. Sheriff Mills was standing in the entrance way, eyes hard and mouth set.  
  
“You and I,” she pointed at Sam, “are going to talk. Now.” Jody glanced at Bobby and Dean. “You two can get out until we’re done.”  
  
“Jody--”  
  
“Can it, Singer. Who’s your other friend?”  
  
“Oh, don’t mind me.” Dean flashed a winning smile. “I’m just here for the… what is that crap we’re supposed to eat again?”  
  
“It’s fine, Jody” Bobby said, giving Dean a warning look. “We’ll be outside.”  
  
“It’s your house, why are we leaving?” Dean protested as Bobby grabbed his arm.  
  
Jody crossed her arms. “Because if you don’t, Sam and I will be having this  _private_  conversation downtown.”  
  
Dean glanced at Sam, who just shrugged. He didn’t look happy, but he didn’t look especially concerned either. He didn’t feel concerned about it either, which was more telling for Dean.  
  
Sheriff Mills closed the door firmly in their wake, leaving Dean and Bobby alone on the porch.  
  
“I thought you said she was tied up in some bus crash and we were clear until tomorrow?”  
  
“I thought you had some kind of super senses so that people couldn’t sneak up on the house?” Bobby growled.  
  
Dean shrugged. “I was distracted. No one’s perfect all the time. Bus crash?”  
  
Bobby shrugged back. “She works fast.”  
  
Dean snorted and headed across the gravel driveway toward the barn. Bobby, lacking anything better to do, trailed along. “You mean she sized Sam up and decided to get over here before he skipped town.”  
  
“She’s a smart lady.”  
  
“Yeah.” Dean crouched down by a rusted shelf holding some motor oils and started poking through bottles. “I hope she likes whatever he has to say, because she’s not taking him to jail.”  
  
“He didn’t do anything; she’s got no reason to arrest him.”  
  
Dean picked up one bottle and shook it, frowning. He set it back down. “And law enforcement is always so reasonable about things like that.”  
  
“She’s a friend, Dean.”  
  
“She’s not our friend, and there’s still warrants in the system for us. I make fun of Sam for worrying about them, but a federal manhunt would be seriously annoying.”  
  
Bobby reached over Dean’s head and grabbed a bottle, which he then held out. Dean took it and stood back up.  
  
“Thanks. Have any more?”  
  
“Check that box in the corner. She’s good people.”  
  
“Considering what we’re wanted for,  _good people_  would put a bullet between our eyes without blinking. I’m not arguing about whether she’s good people or not, I’m just telling you-- she’s not taking him to jail.”  
  
“How about we worry about that if it happens.”  
  
“It’s not  _going_  to happen, that’s my point. This is just a friendly heads up.”  
  
Bobby scowled. “Dean, you aren’t--”  
  
Whatever he was going to say was cut off by the bang of the kitchen door. Sheriff Jody had her two-way radio unclipped from her belt and was speaking into it. She waved towards Bobby and slid into her car. Sam, arms crossed, trailed her down the steps and watched as she turned her cruiser around and headed down the driveway. He drifted over to stand by them and they watched until the tail lights vanished down the highway.  
  
“That was fast,” Bobby ventured.  
  
Sam shrugged. “I just told her that Deborah mostly just seemed to need someone to talk to, and lately she’d been talking about her kids and getting back with Carl. She was gone when I woke up and… whatever happened, happened. She asked if I would come down and give a statement, I said no. She asked me to stay in town, I smiled politely. Then she was paged on the radio and had to head out.”  
  
“Sounds promising,” Bobby mused.  
  
“Sounds like time to go,” Dean said firmly. “Now.”  
  
“I’m packed,” Sam agreed.  
  
“Great. Grab your bag and get in the car. Bobby, it was fun.”  
  
“For who?” Bobby asked skeptically.  
  
“Exciting then.”  
  
Bobby snorted. “Can’t argue with that. Where are you boys headed next?”  
  
Sam and Dean glanced at each other.  
  
“Kansas?” Sam ventured. "It's been a while, maybe I can get some new exercises to work on."  
  
Dean raised an eyebrow. “Missouri’s never really that happy to see me. You want to call and see if she minds us stopping by first?”  
  
Sam shrugged. “She doesn’t mind  _me_  stopping by. You can stay somewhere else.”  
  
“Fine, but if she’s pissed and turns you into a frog or something, I’m going to spend a lot of time saying I told you so.”  
  
“She’s not a witch, Dean.”  
  
“Uh huh. I’ll remember you said that when your fishbowl’s riding shotgun.”  
  
Sam ignored that. “’Bye, Bobby. We’ll be in touch.”  
  
“No rush on that,” Bobby said dryly. “It’s going to take awhile for this visit to wear off.”

  
~~~~~

 

It was late at night and hundreds of miles away before they stopped for more than gas.  
  
It was also cold, but that was an effect of altitude and season. Sam preferred freezing to possible arrest. Jody had seemed more angry at the entire situation than serious about running him in for interrogation, but Sam wasn’t interested in spending any more time around law enforcement than he had to. His fake I.D.s might not hold up to a real inquiry, and a police department interested in digging deeper might send out his picture and get back more than they bargained for. It wasn’t that he was afraid of prison, but he  _was_ afraid of what Dean might do if someone tried to lock either of them up. Especially if he wasn’t on hand to squash any of Dean’s more ‘creative’ ideas.  
  
By the time he and Dean had come to a mutual decision to stop for a few hours, the only choices were a motel that seemed to be hosting some kind of book burning in the parking lot, or some mountain vacation rentals. The sign at the entrance had been marked “closed for season,” but it had only taken a moment to pick the gate lock and then they were cruising under dense canopy as they wound their way higher onto the mountainside in the pitch black. Not even the Impala’s lights were on in case there were inhabited houses in the surrounding forest; Dean’s vision was clear enough to keep them on the narrow, winding path.  
  
They chose the cabin furthest from the main road. With the engine no longer running, the only sounds in the midnight forest were the whisper of moving water and the call of the occasional owl. Sam’s own eyesight had adjusted enough that he was able to vaguely make out trees, and the difference between rough ground and the deeper darkness of the rushing stream they had parked alongside. He turned his flashlight on with the beam trained low to the ground while Dean rummaged in the trunk.  
  
Dean emerged with a couple of sleeping bags and some assorted gear, then led the way over the uneven path to the cabin. Sam was pleased to see a supply of firewood on the low porch, especially after they got the door open and discovered that the electricity wasn’t turned on.  
  
It was a very rustic cabin, and only took Sam a moment to explore. Only two real rooms, with a pantry and bathroom tucked in by the kitchenette and the tiny bedroom with a full bed and barely enough room for the nightstand in the back. Two rough, oversized pine-carved couches dominated the living room with its huge fireplace, and Sam immediately made the decision to sleep on one. The thought of curling up in the cold, dark bedroom when there was a perfectly good couch by the fire was ridiculous.  
  
Dean dumped the sleeping bags on one of the couches. “I’m going to scout around.”  
  
“For what?”  
  
“Neighbors, bigfoot, vengeful gods. Whatever might be loitering in the woods. It would be irritating if the owners show up in an hour and chase us off. Risk assessment.”  
  
“Suit yourself,” Sam shrugged. “You want dinner?”  
  
Dean gave the kitchenette a skeptical look. “If you can find something.”  
  
Sam got the fire going and rummaged through the cabinets. There wasn’t much, but whoever had cleaned the place last had overlooked a few cans of ravioli and some crackers tucked back on a top shelf. The crackers had already been worked over pretty well by mice, but the ravioli had potential.  
  
“Just like mom used to make,” Dean mumbled around a mouthful half an hour later. The cabin had started to warm up appreciably and Sam had finally shed his heavy jacket in favor of wrapping up in sleeping bags. He could have done without Dean’s commentary, though; the pasta was almost more unappealing than hunger had been. The granola bars and other emergency food they kept in the Impala didn’t sound appetizing either.  
  
Sam finally set his can down. “I want a hamburger.”  
  
Dean rolled his eyes. “Back where there  _were_  hamburgers, all you wanted was a place to sleep. Now that you have a place to sleep, all you want is a hamburger. You’re a hard man to please, Sam.”  
  
“I didn’t say it was  _all_  I wanted.”  
  
“I’m not apologizing for cremating your library again,” Dean said firmly.  
  
Sam scowled. “Thanks for reminding me.”  
  
The crackling fire was the only sound in the room as Dean finished his share of the food and Sam picked disinterestedly at his.  
  
“So,” Dean set his empty can down on the table by the couch, “if you didn’t want to whine about your library again, what did you want?”  
  
“I think we should talk about what happened.”  
  
Dean groaned. “No, we really shouldn’t. We got a little sloppy and screwed up, I picked up a new suit for a week, I got the old one back from the cleaners, and the world just keeps on spinning.”  
  
“Fine.”  
  
“Really?” Dean asked suspiciously. Sam was more a hash and rehash kind of guy. It wasn’t like him to be so reasonable about things.  
  
“Really.” Sam shrugged. “I’m okay with it if you’re okay with it.”  
  
“Fantastic. I hid a Snickers under the seat in the car. Why don’t you eat that for dinner so I don’t have to listen to you complain about being hungry all night?”  
  
“I’m barely thawed out. I’m not freezing my ass off for some candy.”  
  
“Such a baby, Sam. It’s at least twenty degrees outside.” Dean stood up and headed for the door.  
  
“Get some more wood while you’re out there!” Sam yelled after him.  
  
Dean reentered a few minutes later with a blast of icy air. He tossed the Snickers onto Sam’s lap and dropped the wood by the fireplace.  
  
“Okay, so  _why_  don’t you want to talk about it?”  
  
Sam looked up, surprised. “You never want to talk about things. I agree with you and that’s a problem?”  
  
“I’m happy you agree! Thrilled, even. But the ‘why’ part is freaking me out. You’ve  _never_  let anything go.”  
  
“Maybe I just think you’re right, there’s nothing to discuss.”  
  
“Are you still upset about the girl?”  
  
“She wasn’t a  _girl_ , and no. Like you said, she was dead weeks before we showed up. I think we did the best we could for her family under the circumstances, and we didn’t hurt anyone to do it.”  
  
“We hurt Carl,” Dean said with grim satisfaction.  
  
That was an interesting point. Sam frowned. “He was a creep, but considering everything we’re involved with, I don’t understand what it was about  _him_  that made you hate him so much.”  
  
“I don’t hate him,” Dean shrugged.  
  
“Right, that’s why when he showed up that day, it was enough to not only get you out of your trance but make you so angry I thought you were going to vaporize him on the spot. I could  _taste_  entropy, Dean. Almost like last year again.”  
  
“Okay, so I hate Carl a little. He deserves it! I was seeing her life from the inside, and then  _he_  showed up, and you were upset, and-- why does this make you happy?” Dean asked suspiciously.  
  
“I’m not happy.”  
  
“If you aren’t going to make the effort on the inside, why bother lying on the outside?”  
  
“You’re not supposed to be eavesdropping on the  _inside_ ,” Sam said pointedly.  
  
“Then maybe you shouldn’t project so clearly. Back to why my desire to crush Carl like a tin can fills you with joy?”  
  
“It doesn’t…” Sam considered the merits of denial and decided just to come clean. “You were upset because Carl was a creep, not just because of the situation with us, but because of what he did to her.”  
  
“So?” Dean asked, unimpressed.  
  
“It mattered to you,” Sam insisted. “That he hurt her. You were angry because of what he did to someone else. You  _cared_.”  
  
“I care about a lot of things. This quest. Where we’re getting breakfast. You. Oh, and the ultimate fate of millions of souls going to Hell.”  
  
“Yeah, but not about  _people_. Not individuals. I mean, the only reason you even bother tolerating Bobby is for my sake, and he’s probably the person you have the most attachment to other than me. We both know it.”  
  
“I wouldn’t hurt Bobby,” Dean said, miffed.  
  
“But you wouldn’t go out of your way not to either. Not if he was between you and a goal. You care because I care and because you’re supposed to care, not because you  _feel_  it. But this thing… You were _really_  angry, Dean.”  
  
“He was  _really_  annoying,  _Sam_.”  
  
Sam shrugged, willing to let he matter drop. He would take his encouragement where he found it and Dean could argue and disagree all he liked. Sam knew what he had felt.  
  
“Have we discussed things enough?” Dean asked hopefully.  
  
“I was fine not to discuss things at all.”  
  
“Good then.”  
  
The conversation lapsed. Sam licked the last of the chocolate off his fingers and gave serious thought to the granola in the car. Dean sprawled out on the couch beside him and watched the fire crackling as it ate steadily through the wood.  
  
Sam wondered if it reminded him of Hell.  
  
Which reminded Sam that there was one other thing he needed to make clear.  
  
“You know it was you, right?” he said abruptly. “When you were her, the person I wanted was still you.”  
  
“I know how the curse works, Sam,” Dean said, still gazing into the flames.  
  
Sam watched them too, not wanting to look at Dean while he struggled to get out what he was trying to say. “I’m not talking about the curse. It’s always there, but it’s not the  _only_  thing that’s there. The change of pace made some things… easier, for me. But that was just in the moment. It doesn’t change who you are. That matters more than what you look like or whatever issues I still have with everything. It’s always you. And me.”  
  
“And the fate of the entire world. And a pack of angry angels. And gazillions of Hell-bound souls.”  
  
“Just to keep things in perspective,” Sam agreed, smiling despite himself. Their situation hadn’t changed, but things between them had. Just a bit, a miniscule shifting as things slid into easier places. Enough sliding and Sam could almost envision a place where he was genuinely comfortable with their relationship. He wasn’t there yet, but maybe one day. Whatever Dean’s change of form had made easier in passing moments of sex, the rest of the time Sam just… really wanted to see his brother’s face. And he really wanted  _Dean_  to see his own face. To have that reminder, that anchor. One more tie to the life he’d given up.  
  
For Sam.  
  
And the world.  
  
Dean’s voice broke into Sam’s introspective musings. “Does this mean I can top tonight?”  
  
Sam glanced at him, eyes narrowed. “It’s twenty degrees outside, and only a little bit warmer in here. I’m wrapped in two sleeping bags and half my clothes. You see me in a hurry to get undressed?”  
  
“What about if I built the fire up more and we dragged all this stuff onto the floor?”  
  
Sam hesitated; he recognized a test when he saw one. But Dean was still a blank wall on his mental landscape and there was nothing on his face to give Sam any clues.  
  
“Not tonight,” Sam finally said.  
  
Dean shrugged and turned back to the flames.  
  
“Maybe tomorrow,” Sam continued, still watching Dean. “If we can find some place with a heater and actual insulation.”  
  
A flash of surprise showed on Dean’s face for an instant before his expression fell back into inscrutable lines. He glanced at Sam. “Tomorrow we’ll be at Missouri’s. Or you will,” he pointed out.  
  
“We don’t have to go straight there. There’s a guy outside of Carmargo who’s supposed to have some interesting material we haven’t seen. He also doesn’t seem to like answering his phone. We could swing by there and stop at that bar you like off 283 afterwards?”  
  
Dean crossed his arms and leaned back into the cushions.”I thought that hermit out in West Oklahoma was supposed to have died.”  
  
Sam shrugged. “Someone has to have his stuff. We’ll knock politely and find out who lives there now.”  
  
“Seems like kind of a long shot. Odds are good his crap is either in unmarked storage somewhere or packed off or donated. You don’t want to just keep calling around and asking?”  
  
“Easier to go in person.”  
  
“Uh huh.”  
  
Sam elbowed him. “I’m just saying… we have time. For other things.”  
  
“Carmargo then,” Dean said, watching him.  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“And then Missouri’s.”  
  
Sam nodded.  
  
“And then?”  
  
“Whatever comes next over the horizon.”  
  
“Better remind me to change the oil, then; chasing the horizon puts a lotta miles on an engine.”  
  
“It puts a lot of miles on everything.” Sam slumped back against the couch. With his and Dean’s problems momentarily ironed out, the weight of the larger problem seemed overwhelming again. The adventure at Bobby’s had been diverting, if stressful, but now they were back on track, and the track was grueling and unrewarded.  
  
“We’ll find an end to this, Sam,” Dean promised quietly. “This quest, this angel bullshit. Everything. The answer is out there. And we’re going to hunt it down.”

 

**END**

 

**Other Stories in this 'Verse**

**A03:[F](http://archiveofourown.org/works/418832/chapters/696771) **[ortress](http://archiveofourown.org/works/418832/chapters/696771), [Skin and Bones](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2100609), [Static](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2099679/chapters/4576209), The Things You Keep, [Requiem](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2070777/chapters/4502640)****

**Livejournal:[Fortress](http://glasslogic.livejournal.com/10886.html), [Skin and Bones](http://glasslogic.livejournal.com/21364.html), [Static](http://glasslogic.livejournal.com/25664.html), [The Things You Keep](http://glasslogic.livejournal.com/43883.html), [Requiem](http://glasslogic.livejournal.com/45283.html)**

 

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